


Love, SH

by Lola_hyuga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, Blackmail, Bullying, Complete, Emails, First Time, Fluff, High School, Inspired by Love Simon, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Redbeard - Freeform, Rugby Captain John Watson, Secret Identities, Secrets, Slow Burn, Smut, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola_hyuga/pseuds/Lola_hyuga
Summary: Sherlock shares anonymous emails with someone he very much enjoys receiving attention from. Problem is, he has no idea who. Bigger problem is, someone finds out and blackmails him. He compromises himself, just for an opportunity at happiness with the most confusing, adorable guy's he's ever "met".
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 94
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Becky Albertalli's Simon VS The Homo Sapiens Agenda. I love the original and decided to adapt the story to my OTP.  
> This work is rated as “Mature” solely because the last chapter (chapter 15) contains pure almost plotless smut. It can be read separately if that’s what you want; or, if you’re uncomfortable with it, you can choose to not read it at all. Doesn’t affect the story at all and wasn’t based on the original work. (It was simply written because I enjoyed doing so). 
> 
> If you choose not to read the last chapter, the work can be rated as “Teen and Up Audiences”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say, except that, even if no one bothers to read this, I'll still be thrilled (and thankful) to know I wrote this. Johnlock is the best OTP one could have and, contributing to the fandom is the only thing I could wish for (with exception of the 5th season).  
> Enjoy!  
> -CGM

It’s a weirdly subtle conversation. One could almost forget they were being blackmailed. They were sitting in the Chemistry lab, waiting for the teacher to come back with some vials, for some idiot had broken theirs. 

“I read your email.”

Sherlock looked up and raised his eyebrows at him, not dignifying him with any answer or response. He was just another idiot who probably wanted to copy his homework.

“Earlier, in the library. Not on purpose, obviously.”

“You read my email?” Something on the back of his mind told him there was danger nearby. His brain focused on the way Anderson’s foot tapped against the floor. Anxious. He was going to make an offer. His pupils dilated as he looked to the side. An offer involving a love interest. A girl, in that specific case.

“Well, I used the computer right after you,” he said, “and when I typed in Gmail, it pulled up your account. You probably should have logged out.” Damn it. He was used to using his computer at home. No one ever touched it. He wouldn’t even have touched the one at the library, had it not been an emergency. They were disgusting, anyway. Sherlock glared daggers at him. What he wanted was obvious. The words appeared in front of his trained eyes before he even registered them, or where they came from. Blackmail: A favour. In exchange for secrecy. “So, what’s the point of the fake name?” he asked.

Idiot, idiot, idiot! Sherlock or Anderson? At the moment: both. The point of a fake name: obvious. It’s only function is to keep imbeciles like Philip Anderson from knowing one’s secret identity. So, that worked out brilliantly. Idiot.

He must’ve seen him sitting at the computer. How could he not have? It’d be hard to miss him. The ‘freak’, with the long coat and the rude comments about everyone’s lives, that border on stalker behaviour. People can’t even distinguish his talents of deduction from something as common as stalking. Why he would have the need to stalk such obvious, simple-minded people was beyond him. Right at that moment, he considered himself a monumental idiot.

Anderson actually had the audacity to smile. How dare he?

“Anyway, I thought it might interest you that my brother is gay.” Making a connection: hinting subtly at his new acquired knowledge of Sherlock’s sexuality. He was not trying to comfort or support him. Just deliver information that falls to his advantage. His main goal was to make it clear that, with a few words, he could control Sherlock at his will.

“Um, not really.” Not at all, actually. They stared at each other. He refused to give Anderson the satisfaction. He would force him to say it word by word, if he had to, and Sherlock would do anything in his power to find every flaw in this ridiculous plan and turn it against the moron. The slightest eyelash out of place would equal Anderson’s doom. “What are you trying to say?” Yes, Anderson should speak and fall in Sherlock’s trap. Instead of making his own bed and lying in it, he might as well dig his own grave and fall dead.

“Nothing. Look, Holmes, I don’t have a problem with it.” Not that he’d ever care what this brainless idiot had a problem with. It’s none of his business. Sherlock wouldn’t even mind if people found out about his sexuality. Merely chemical, that.

Except it would be a little bit of a disaster, actually. Or possibly a fuckstorm of a disaster, depending on whether Anderson could keep his mouth shut. More data is required.

“This is really awkward,” the halfwit said, eying the door, expecting the return of the teacher. She’d probably meet the art’s teacher on her way and chit chat. They’re attracted to each other. One of them is married.

Anderson’s comment didn’t even deserve to be graced with an answer.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “it’s pretty obvious you don’t want people to know.” 

Wrong . If it only affected Sherlock’s person, he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass. It’s no one else’s business who he felt a sexual attraction to. That’s not what bothered him. Not even close. What bothered him was knowing he would have great difficulty bluffing his way out of that one. There were too many variables. Fluctuating probabilities to consider. Volatile inconstants. Too many unpredictabilities. He could just say ‘go ahead’ and ‘tell anyone you’d like’ or even twist his words until this moron saw - understood- that the whole coming out thing wouldn’t even make Sherlock flinch. The problem was, he didn't know- couldn’t be certain- what it would mean for H. If Anderson were to tell anyone. The thing about H is that he was kind of a private person. understandable, as people do little else but talk. The kind of person who would not forget to log out of his email. The kind of person who might never forgive Sherlock for being so careless. Negligent.

He didn’t know what it would mean for them. If it were to get out. For H and him.

He seriously could not believe he was having this conversation with Philip Anderson. Of all the people who could’ve logged into gmail after him. If they didn’t block the wireless here, it would never even have happened, he wouldn’t even have used the damn computer. That ancient bloody thing. And it was one of those days he couldn’t wait until he got home to his laptop. And his microscope. Sherlock couldn’t even wait until he got to the parking lot to check his phone.

Because he’d written H from the secret email account that morning. An important email at that. Very much so.

He just needed to know whether or not H had written back. Idiot.

“I actually think people wouldn’t care,” Anderson said. “You should be who you are.” That one had been good enough to receive the praise of an eye roll.

What was he supposed to do with that, exactly? Some shortsighted idiot who barely knew Sherlock, or gave a crap about him for that matter, advising him on coming out. The second eye roll was stronger than his self control, and he was only able to contain the deductions his brain gathered thanks to the thought that, if Anderson were to roll his own eyes, he wouldn’t find a single brain cell back there. Yes, that was helpful.

“Well, whatever. I'm not going to show anyone.”

Had his mind been as slow as Anderson’s, this would’ve brought a brief sense of relief. Only his mind wasn’t. It hit him instantly: the real reason why he was there, finally. The bastard. It was like a flash of light indicating the inevitable path he would have to follow.

“Show anyone?” It slipped out. Although he didn’t know the answer. Sherlock just refused to help the simpleton blackmail him by shortening the path to his own calamity.

Anderson had the audacity to blush as he reached for his phone. He was going to show Sherlock something. The pictures he had captured of the emails, of course. Private conversations were called ‘private’ for a reason.

“You’ll erase the screenshots in exchange for what?” 

He pursed his lips together and stared over Sherlock's shoulder. She’s there. that narrows the victim’s possible identity list to half. “Anyway, I know you’re friends with Irene Adler,” easy one to guess. “so I wanted to ask-”

“Enough. Just, enough. Just stop talking or you’ll lower the IQ of the whole school.” Friends with Irene. No. Acquaintances at best. They hung out together because Mike, Molly and Lestrade did, too. She was friendly enough to consider him a friend. He did not reciprocate. They were some of the few at school who didn’t call Sherlock a ‘freak’ and tolerate his behaviour, though, so he was polite enough to not point the situation out. Allies were always an advantage. And a source of information. “You want me to put in a word for you?”

“Well, yeah.”

Most people at the school were harmless, at first glance. Including the moron speaking to him. At least they used to be- considering the previous collection and analyses of data. Before there had been leverage they could use to hang above him. Sentiment: certainly the opposite of an advantage. The current data would need an urgent update.

If Sherlock didn’t do this, his emails would be going around the school by the following morning. Again, people did little else besides talking; especially conversations involving gossip. Everyone would know within a day. Including H.

“How will we proceed, then?”

He was quiet. Who blackmails someone without planning everything out, first? That fool, clearly.

The teacher reentered the room and Anderson nodded with his head, clearly attempting to be polite. Looking at Sherlock with a clear message that the conversation should be under close consideration and scrutiny. Except there was not much to consider. He didn’t even really have a choice if he wanted H and his arrangements to continue. And Sherlock really did want that. He wanted to keep receiving small clues as to who he was and wanted to keep swapping emails where he would be relentlessly praised for being ‘brilliant’ and ‘fantastic’. H went to this school. H was, obviously, not his real name. If only it were that simple.

He was someone. He may even have been someone of Sherlock’s acquaintance. Someone he’d conversed with. He just didn't know who. And he was not sure he wanted to know, either. 

Sometimes ignorance was bliss. And keeping the charade may be better, for he could pretend everything was perfect. That might be one of those times.

xxxxxx

Sherlock was seriously not in the mood to deal with Mycroft. He probably had about an hour until his brother came home, which meant he had an hour to organize his thoughts and lock his emotions away. He had practiced enough. It wouldn’t take long. With Mycroft it had to be like that. Sherlock couldn’t exactly tell him that he had recently burned one of Mrs Turner’s hair extensions during an attempt at explaining to her that it would be more productive to learn about cleaning blood stains out of clothing, than about the boiling properties of water. You had to pretend. You had to perform. It was more exhausting than any conversation with the school’s designated bullies, even. And those needed a lot of effort to deal with and not punch square in the face as soon as they opened their mouths.

It was whimsical, though. The conversations with Mycroft used to be enjoyable and even stimulating. Their little private judgement of others. Now, it seemed he couldn’t run from his brother fast enough. Sherlock just wanted to lock himself in his room- and laboratory- and roam through his usually peaceful mind palace until the crack of dawn. Today especially. He only just barely had time to take Redbeard out on a quick walk before the inevitable return to his room and the submerge of his being in his microscope.

Sherlock wanted to lose himself in a new sample of bacteria. His mind, however, seemed sharply inclined to not letting him forget about the day’s events. H. Philip Anderson. The bloody emails. The blackmail.

So, the moron was into Irene. Nothing different from every other straight boy. It could be worse: all he would probably want would be to tag along when Sherlock hung out with her. Didn’t seem like such a big deal. Didn’t seem like it.

Except for the fact that he was being blackmailed. And by extension H was being blackmailed. That’s the part that made the genius consider an elaborate murder. He’d go for it, knowing the police would run out of their dept trying to figure out his prodigious crime, if it weren’t for H.

But the bacteria helped. Walking Redbeard to Lestrade’s house helped; seeing people following their frivolous traditions of leaving decorated pumpkins on their doorsteps helped. Knowing others had strange, repetitive traditions helped him keep his mind at ease. Knowing the predictability of others. Everything just: helped.

Redbeard and Sherlock cut around to the backyard and through the basement. There was a telly facing the door. Lestrade and Mike had taken over a pair of video game controllers and clearly hadn’t moved all afternoon. Mike was holding his urge to use the loo: his legs twitched enough for that simple fact to be evident. The package of chips on the floor suggested Lestrade skipped his last class. They paused the game when they heard the dog’s paw steps walk in. Clearly welcoming an excuse to stop after many failed tries at finishing the last level.

“Redbeard!” said Molly, walking through the door, followed by Adler. Within seconds, Redbeard was perched awkwardly in their laps. Tongue out; belly up; leg thumping. Blissfully yapping. Shameless dog.

“Want me to scratch your ears, too, cheek bones?” Irene winked at him and received a scoff. The use of his unwanted nickname was always an indicator of normality, so he let it slide. Things were normal. There was no part of him that cared about the foreseeable outcome of their game; nor was there a part of him that wanted to chat with any of them. However, it was preferable to be there than with Mycroft. The need for the background noise of violent video games; the smell of the old basement; the happy snoring of his dog. Normal. Customary.

Sherlock laid down on the empty armchair and tried to lose himself. The aimlessness of his afternoons.

“Sherlock, Mike hasn’t heard about the ‘divorce incident’.”

“Oh, Mr Martin’s cheating wife? It was elementary. She wouldn’t visit him for the first time in seven years of marriage just talk to him about some excuse trip. Also, I saw her messing with his phone, clearly deleting a message.”

Explaining it was odd, but -just as silence helped him think- the noise helped his head clear itself. Sometimes cleaning was very much needed up there, with all the useless information thrown at him every second. Unneeded data. Unwanted knowledge. There, secrets didn’t exist. The only problems were Sherlock’s superiority. Anderson didn’t exist. Blackmail was nonexistent and an imaginary subject.

Stupid. Perfect.

Lestrade yawned and Molly tried to launch a little folded paper into his mouth. Mike blocked it with his hand and threw it back at the girls, waking Redbeard. 

“Why are you so tired?” Someone questioned. He couldn’t be arsed to care who.

Would it be insensitive to reveal his knowledge of the matter? They usually didn’t mind.

“Because I party hard. All night; every night,” Lestrade answered.

“If by that you mean doing calculus homework because your mother threatened to pull you off the rugby team.” He blushed and Sherlock closed his eyes again, drowning everything out. Blocking reality away.

This whole situation was not just about his secrets. It was hardly about him at all.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 17 at 12:06 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: when you knew**

H,

That’s interesting. You were lucky that ordinary people seem to ignore the most discernible cues: the dilation of pupils and change of heart frequency. Not to mention the blood rush through the neck and cheeks.

Either way, have you seen this ‘older guy’ since that wedding? If you haven't, I’d be delighted to hunt him down and torture him a little for making you so uneasy during your middle school years.

As for when I had the pleasure to unveil my sexuality: it was merely a sum of the chemical reactions developing in my body whenever I thought of specific people. I made it my personal mission to discover what I enjoy and what I do not.

I explored the hypothesis of asexuality, for, while my acquaintances and the few people I would actually consider my friends- not that I’d ever admit that to them- were enjoying experimentation with either significant others or casual encounters, I was simply unbothered by the whole ‘hormones’ and ‘libido’ occurrence.

That is, of course, until I realized I am sexually attracted to men who, and this is quite rare, are able to connect with me on an intellectual level. I was just, as they say, a ‘late bloomer’. This, not meaning that the individual must be of a similar cognitive ability to mine- which would be quite difficult to find- signifies that the man to whom I am attracted to comprehends my peculiarities and, instead of trying to alter them, finds his place inside my mind and helps me improve and expand.

This is officially the longest email I have ever written. You should be quite proud of this accomplishment. You may be the only person who gets more than a hundred characters from me. 

Anyway, I think I’ll sign off here. Not going to lie: It’s been a full day.

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 17 at 8:46 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: when you knew**

I’m the only one? That’s definitely kind of awesome! I’m very honored. It’s funny, because I don’t usually use my email. And I never talk about this stuff with anyone. Only you.

For what it’s worth, I think it would be very sad for me if you were actually asexual. Nothing against it, though. 

I really hated high school. You can’t imagine how much. I remember the way people tried to make it clear that, whatever you were thinking or feeling, you were totally alone. And being judged. The worst was that I probably did the exact same thing to someone, without noticing.

Basically, what i’m trying to say is that most people suck. But you don’t. I mean… (just kidding).

To answer your question, I have indeed seen him a couple times since. He is a friend of someone from my mother’s side. He’s actually married and expecting a baby (girl, I think), now. It’s really amazing, isn't it? Someone can trigger your sexual identity crisis and not have a clue they’re doing it. He probably thinks of me as the weird twelve-year-old kid who spilled champagne on top of himself at a wedding.

So, I guess this is the obvious question, but I’ll ask it anyway: is life a big experiment for you? Not like that’s a bad thing, though. Just, like, do you ever not look around like you have to collect all the data?

Sorry about your weird day.

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 18 at 11:15 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: when you knew**

H,

I am sure I make everyone around me feel worthless. Therefore, you do not have any need to feel ashamed about your prior days.

My perspective on the world is hard to explain: everything just unravels in front of my eyes. I can just look at someone and, instead of seeing someone with feelings, two eyes, a mouth, or dull things like those, I see the battlefield. I see the patterns with which people process their thoughts. My brain just collects the data on its own. People are no more difficult to read than any book. You just read the words in a different manner.

Honestly? I sometimes envy the silence idiots have in their heads. 

Not sure if that applies to any example with which you can identify yourself. Doubt it immensely.

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 19 at 8:01 AM**

**SUBJECT: The obligatory…**

Don’t worry your explendid brain with it, I know what you mean. Maybe not to the same extent, but I get it.

-H

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any notes you have are appreciated and I will answer every single comment.  
> Thank you.  
> -CGM


	2. Chapter 2

The worst thing about the Anderson situation was that he couldn’t bring himself to discuss it with H. H was supposed to be the one person Sherlock could discuss anything with. He wasn’t even shy, per say. Just cautious. And this wasn’t a subject as easy as the others they discussed. Like the eyes he kept in his fridge to the fact that he didn’t have breakfast that morning.

Obviously, there were a lot of things they did not tell each other. They usually only shared the big things: the important ones. Avoiding details that might give their identities away: in Sherlock’s case, the name of his teachers or closest companions; in H’s case, well, anything too specific at all, although he was trying to ignore the deductions in a way that would make the whole charade last longer. And ignoring something as natural as breathing was definitely a welcomed challenge. 

Those mere details weren’t exactly secrets. They were more like an unspoken agreement between them. 

If H had a face in Sherlock’s mind; if he could see his profile online: he would surely not be telling him anything- it could all turn out to be an ill humoured prank, anyway. Of course, he- H- was real, but in a way, he only existed when Sherlock opened his laptop. It was hard to make a sense of it. And Sherlock had never had that problem before. Ever. And having that problem now was simply excruciating.

Sherlock was the one who found him, anyway. There had been an anonymous post at some social media Molly had been looking at and he happened to memorise the email address associated with the account of whoever posted it. The post had just kind of spoken to him. Which, on its own, was already something extraordinarily out of the ordinary. 

It had been silly. An anonymous adventure story, instead of those awful posts people his age like. Moronic and useless information, those posts surely were. The ones where they complain about their dull existence, when instead they could be doing something useful. That specific story, however, had opened a door in his brain: the world seemed much simpler when seen from another person’s perspective.

Sherlock was not sure why. His brain had surely caught some new species of virus. It was only around twenty lines, grammatically faulted and had too many adjectives. Judging it as a whole, it was clearly a flawed piece. But it was sincere. It was truthful. It was very H. It had h written all over it. Obviously. He wrote it, after all. Just trying to describe what was going through his head made Sherlock want to peel the skin off his face in frustration. But he remained calm. And he distracted his loud brain with the violin and reread the story over and again.

It was about a lonely boy and, even if he didn’t consider himself a lonely person, it was funny, because there was something familiar about the way the lonely character felt. The way he’d been described and impersonated. It was like someone had gotten inside his mind palace and written what they saw: too many things happening at once, too much to focus on and too little comprehensible. One was not sure where to look, it was hard to not know everything and nothing at all at the same time.

Like the way Sherlock memorized someone’s patterns and gestures, but he could never read their thoughts; this made his deductions become, instead of perfect, frustratingly counterfactual.

It had made him feel exposed and, yet, seen.

Sherlock started reading it before bed, just to remind himself that he, too, was a human being and that he, too, could have an emotional connection with someone. Previous to H, those thoughts would’ve been absurd. Unwarranted.

He talked about, in the story, a plane that flew and flew, every passenger inside unconscious- dead to the world-, except for a little boy, who could see everything, had an answer for everything, for he was up there and every other unimportant person was down on earth. The boy could see everything, except how to land.

How could anyone expect Sherlock to not want to know him? To let such a mystery pass by, unnoticed.

He didn’t really need to work up the courage, for fear is barely a mixture of chemicals that are meant to keep him alive. He did have this realisation internalized. So he emailed the single compliment: ‘I liked your story’ from his secret email account.

Sherlock had spent the entire next week obsessing about whether or not he would contact him. And he did. exactly when the genius was dissecting a dead squirrel he’d found outside. He wrote that the praise had made him ‘a little nervous’. He’s really careful about things. More careful than Sherlock would ever care to be. Obviously. 

That is why, if H finds out that Anderson has evidence of the emails they exchanged, Sherlock’s certain he’ll be apprehensive. The emails will stop. But the freak out will be so H.

The memory of how it felt to see that first message from H in his in-box was crystal-clear in his mind. It had been surreal. For the first time his body lost total control and he found himself smiling, of all things. Smiling. And it had been so hard to stop. Which had blossomed more questions along. Like ‘what was happening to him?’ and ‘what was he dying of?’.

H had asked about Sherlock.  _ Sherlock _ . Always so nurturing.

For the next few days after that, life had felt like a movie. Sure, a not very interesting one. But important and exciting nonetheless. His face in a close-up; how appropriate.

It was strange, for the last thing he wanted was attention from anyone who wasn’t H.

Sherlock didn’t consider himself as ‘brilliant’ or ‘amazing’ before H started calling him that. Better than other people, yes. Brilliant, certainly a big stretch. Only ‘freak’ before had come to mind as to what others thought of him. So he couldn’t bring himself to tell H. He’d prefer not to lose him.

xxxxxx

Sherlock had been avoiding Anderson. The imbecile was predictable enough. The few times that it was inevitable they cross paths, Sherlock saw him trying to catch his eye. Avoidance like this might be considered cowardice, but, in this case, it was vital to proceed with it. At least, the whole situation had made him feel powerless; unable to use his tricks against Anderson.

It only got worse when Sherlock decided he would, eventually , end up doing it. Helping him. Cave to the blackmail. It made him feel sick.

He was distracted all throughout school. Molly seemed to be especially jolly because of some thing or the other and Mike chose to be just as annoying when he discovered what was being served for lunch that day. The guy’s metabolism would become a problem once he stopped playing rugby. Sherlock, personally, had no idea what it was. He didn’t have a single bite. When his mind needed to process information as urgently as this, eating was certainly not an asset. Everything happening was simply ridiculous. Had they always been like this?

Sherlock caught himself looking around very often now. Taking in his surroundings. Evaluating: about fifty fifty on the male female percentages of the student body; eliminating the ones with obvious infatuations; the ones who he’d seen writing in a way that clearly showed they were not preoccupied with how good it was- H loved writing and it was hauntingly obvious he hunched over the paper as he wrote, smudging the lines from the enthusiasm. It was precious to even think about it. There was too much to consider; an infinite number of data combinations and Sherlock was unsure he wanted to figure it out. Not just yet, anyway.

When he got home, he felt as if he were floating. Reality was but a hazy cloud embracing him and he knew what was coming. Yet was completely oblivious to the complexity of it all, tangles in his mind as paths opened for him. He laid in bed, opened his laptop and read the story over and over, waiting for when his tightening pants got only tighter, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not that he wished for it to stop, anyhow.

Sherlock usually waited for it to go away, and on nights like this he- more often than not- woke up with a need for a change of clothes. His breathing just ragged enough for him to ignore the possibility of shouts during his sleep that might have awoken the household. That and the knowledge that no one would notice if he yelled at the top of his lungs, anyway. He’d eventually get up. There were some pants Mrs Hudson shouldn’t have to wash.

Sherlock was sure H would never be afraid to touch himself. A mere biological need for release and relaxation. He’d bet H thought about older boys as he did it and was not ashamed of himself afterwards. For him, it must be as simple as that.

Sherlock’s not ashamed of his sexuality- he’s ashamed that he needed the ordinary release others do. His biological urges surpass his brain at times and he couldn’t make sense of himself.

xxxxxx

The first mistake from Sherlock’s part had been the lunch table. Assuming- stupidly, for he should never have done so without proper evidence- that Anderson would avoid speaking to the ‘freak’ in public. It’d been less than a week since the blackmail conversation, and he intercepted Sherlock on his way to the lunch table. This was a serious issue.

“What. Do. You. Want?” he snapped before even seeing him approaching. His hearing is good enough to identify Anderson’s gait.

“Room for one more?” he inquired, glancing at the table Sherlock was making his way to.

He wanted to make a scene. Reveal his enemy’s darkest secrets so everyone would judge him and subtract him away from Sherlock. The table was already too full- he knew it before looking. It was Wednesday. The cafeteria was always uncomfortably crowded on Wednesdays. That would be a good excuse. Except he couldn’t risk it. Not if it involved H.

Maybe they wouldn’t mind. Just once. Mike, Molly, Lestrade and Irene. Molly’s friend: Mary something, who was as delectable as Anderson himself. Except she wasn’t blackmailing him. Lestrade 's rugby mates: quiet, polite John Watson and semi-douche Sebastian.

That’s the seven of them; the ones he tries to tolerate long enough to not be a complete outcast.

They hadn’t exactly laid out the terms and conditions of the blackmail situation; but it seemed simple enough: Anderson asked for whatever the hell he wanted. And then Sherlock was supposed to do it.

“I might not be the best at picking up social clues, but if this is really going to happen it has to go smoothly. Even idiots like you must suspect that something is wrong if we just start hanging out, out of the blue.” And on that note he left, went outside and waited for his next class.

xxxxxx

Except the days kept ticking by, and he still hadn’t handled it. Sherlock hadn’t spoken to Irene, or invited Anderson along to crap. He didn’t understand what the idiot wanted, exactly. It would have been easier if he could just lock them in a room together and force them to be together. Like lab rats that were much easier to manipulate and handle.

Sherlock was kind of hoping to avoid finding out what he was going to be forced to do for as long as humanly possible. He guessed he’d been doing a lot of extremely necessary disappearing. Or walking in between Molly and Mike, blending in so no one would talk to him. Which was a lot harder when you were as tall as Sherlock. He pulled into the parking lot on Friday and waited inside the car. 

He ended up on his phone, reading some articles about the decomposition of a body postmortem. 

There was a knock on the passenger side window, and he almost jumped.  _ Work, brain. Work _ . He urged himself. He’d started to expect encountering Anderson everywhere. Except it had been just Lestrade. So Sherlock gestured vaguely toward the window that he was allowed to enter the vehicle if so he wished to.

He could hear him climbing into the seat. 

“What are you doing?” 

Avoiding a moron. “Reading.”

They ended up discussing whether or not a decomposing body was ‘gross’ and compromised on the fact that they both agreed that it would be rather enjoyable to find one. Sherlock could tell Lestrade knew something was up with him. By now, he would’ve surely offended him and told him to bugger off. Or burned a class room down. Instead, he was keeping an eye on the clock: Making sure they get to class on time; but cutting off that margin of time before class began, where an idiot- Anderson- might try to strike a conversation with him.

And it was funny, because even knowing it, Lestrade didn’t question anything about his behaviour. He knew small talk would get him nowhere. He was right. Correct. That was their dynamic: Sherlock knew his voice and expressions, his unshared secrets even; Lestrade was familiar with his antics and that he should under no circumstances question them. He had learned to read between the lines, to look for the meaning in Sherlock’s actions.

“If we find a body, we can totally skip English.” Humor. He was trying to lighten the mood. It wouldn’t work. He knew it. He tried anyway.

“If we find a dead body, I hope it’s the teacher’s,” he lied. He wished it would be Anderson’s.

Lestrade looked at him and laughed. It was getting easier to escape from his problems, but only temporarily. He knew it was.

xxxxxx

Sherlock’s second mistake had happened on his way to the loo. It was cold and it was about to rain. Not entirely related to his current situation. He was alone. Suddenly, he was not anymore.

“Okay, Holmes. What’s your deal?” It was hard not to know who it was. A monkey would have guessed it. “Are you avoiding me?” Moron. Asking an obvious question. His deal was that tremendous idiocy.

He had a purple umbrella in hand and, instead of giving Sherlock a sense of superiority like it did Mycroft, it simply accentuated how much of a twit Anderson was.

“I am not,” he said. Fuck going to the loo. He would go somewhere more crowded so the torture would ceise.

He followed him, quietly muttering something about not sharing the emails in exchange for a simple favor and some nonsense about the gift of charity. Well, he sure as hell was not offering to delete them. Lastly, he shouted something that made Sherlock stop dead on his tracks: “Stop freaking out, ‘freak’!”

He’d rather take this than actually give in. This he was used to. Humiliating.

Never in his life had he underestimated someone so severely. Won’t happen again. Ever.

He wanted to remind him that he was going to do everything smoothly, but anyone would call out his bullshit. He didn’t know where he was going. Out of there, probably. Away.

“Wait,” he said. What choice did he have but to comply? “Would it be easier if we exchanged numbers?”

“Do I have a choice?” He would do this, but he would make Anderson feel as miserable as he himself was feeling. If he’s wanted to, Sherlock could have the moron’s number in a matter of minutes. But he did not want such a thing.

He shrugged, recoiling from Sherlock’s raised voice.

Sherlock grabbed the phone that had been extended at him and his hands were almost vibrating with total fury as he punched his  _ personal _ number into the contacts list. 

He informed Sherlock he intended to contact him just so he’d have his as well, as he walked away. He’d save the contact as ‘mind-numbingly-idiot-fucking-moron’. Or he could not save it at all. That would work, too. It would be a good option. He’d know instantly which texts were Anderson’s: every single one that probably ended with an irritating catch phrase. Any message asking him for favours. 

“Sherlock!” Irene found him and flung her arms around his neck, tiptoeing to reach it. She still hadn’t gotten accustomed to his policy of no physical contact at all, unless extremely necessary, and even that was a big stretch. “Never leave me again.”

“What did I miss?” Sherlock could tell his smile looked more like a grimace.

“Nothing,” she whispered and he looked at his surroundings to see who she was avoiding. The answer was obvious. Boring. “I’m in Mary hell here.”

“The blondest circle of hell.” She was the worst kind of perfect: like, if perfection had had a dark, bad side. He could not explain it any better. He’d always imagined her standing in front of a mirror at night; counting the people that had fallen to her feet. She had the tendency to ask people how their tests went, if they were okay, if they had eaten. She did none of these things to be supportive. She just wanted to know if she did better than you, if you had any gossip she could meddle in, if she could hold a favor over your head. Sherlock detested her. 

He let himself be pulled inside by Irene as he heard Mary ask the teacher something about the slides they’d been given to study. She was also the kind of person who pretended to ask a question just to show off what she already knew.

Judging by the unusual tap of fingers on the table; the constant glances at the clock; and the frown- the teachers detested Mary as well. knowing this pleased Sherlock. Knowing that she is not aware of it almost gave him a reason to smile.

Victor, the boy who sat behind him, was catching up on his homework that was due in a few classes. He muttered to himself and Sherlock drowned him out. It used to make him want to rip his own hair out, shove it in his own mouth and choke himself to death. With time, however, he got used to ignoring the sounds outside his head, since what the teacher was saying was in no way news to him.

He knew Victor was not gay, but he always read this clues that he was not straight either. Not that he cared.

The teacher decided to finally start boring him and wrote something on the board. He had no clue where to start on the whole ‘talking to Irene’ situation. He’d think of something. H said he was brilliant and he’d have to think of something if he was to keep existing in Sherlock’s life.

The class eventually ended, but Irene decided to engage in small-talk with him, for whatever reason. She accompanied him to his car and decided to tuck herself under his arm. Sherlock spotted Anderson a few feet away, who made a point of catching his attention any way he could. Sherlock sighed. There’d be no escaping this one.

“Hey, um, Irene. You're still fixated on forcing me to go to the party at Sebastian’s house, correct?” she nodded, raising an eyebrow. And down that road they went. Sherlock signaled for Anderson to get closer and put his mental mask on. “You coming to Seb’s tomorrow?” he sounded so fake that he could see them both flinch and Irene cringe.

“Like… a party?”

“Halloween party. You should come. I’ll send you the address.” Just a quick text to ‘moron’s arsehole’ which was the name he settled for. He nodded and turned to leave, immediately tripping over his untied shoelaces. Then he tried to play it off like he’d meant to do it all along.

Idiot. Moron. Idiot.

He walked away and they moved to Sherlock’s car. Irene tried to catch up. “Didn’t know you were friends with him. Is this one of your experiments?”

Which was about how hilariously dumb as that could get.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 30 at 9:56 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Halloween**

H,

I guess I tried to pull off something risky. Other people enjoy dressing up, my family and I are not really into those traditions. Be barely have a Christmas celebration. My older brother isn’t usually here during Halloween. Not that I mind. you wouldn’t catch me dead inside a silly costume.

I can’t believe you adhere to these traditions. However, if you need, I can loan you my genuine human skull, or some fingernails I acquired. I apologize for not offering the toenails, but I predict I will need them a little longer, still.

If you change your mind about looking like a kid in public, just text me and I’ll write about my experiments.

Disappointedly yours,

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 31 at 8:11 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Halloween**

W,

Sorry to disappoint. I do make a compelling case, and i do see the appeal of spending an evening emailing a genius. But you must understand my desire to pretend to be someone else for an evening. Wear a mask and become whoever I want. Except when my parents forced me to make my costumes ‘weather appropriate’ and I’d make a tantrum saying “super man does not wear a turtleneck”. When I was little, I always dressed as a superhero. Or with an army uniform. I guess I liked to imagine myself as a saviour, a hero. I’ve always wanted to help people. Maybe I still do. 

Maybe these emails help me feel special like I used to, you know? 

Anyway, I will dress up because I have to take my sister trick or treating and she insists she is too ‘grown up’ to go with our parents. Which is perfect, since my mom has some kind of work party where she’ll get drunk until she passes out. So I’m stuck on chocolate duty. i’m sure you understand that the only thing sadder than a sixteen year old boy babysitting in full costume is a teenage boy who doesn’t enjoy life at the fullest and doesn’t dress up.

Your brother sounds… interesting. I bet deep down you love each other.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy your day of experiments. Although you could always wear some dead bloke’s skin as your costume.

**-H**

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Oct 31 at 8:25 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Halloween**

Human skin? Not a horrible idea. But no dice. Not on such short notice, anyway.

\- W

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were able to keep reading, thank you so much. I hope you enjoy!  
> Thank you!  
> -CGM


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you feel lost...  
> ...  
> ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy  
> -CGM

Honest to god, there was nothing better than staying at home. Except, today, he’d have to drag himself to a stupid party. After a day at school, pretending to care about what the teachers said and forcing his deductions away from his vision as people in full costumes passed him on the hallways.

Irene was going home with him- to make sure he didn’t bail, again, he’s certain of that much- and they would walk over to Lestrade’s later, where Mike and Molly would be waiting as well. Molly was the oldest, along with Lestrade, but as she chose not to drink, she was the designated driver. They didn’t even consider Sherlock for the roll, as he’d surely just take the car and leave them behind. they were not wrong to think like that. Were it possible, he’d never hang out with them outside of school, unless it gave him any sort of advantage.

Redbeard, once they entered Sherlock’s house, threw himself on top of the guest and asked for endless cuddles. Everyone seemed to instantly fall in love with that dog. Which was justified, looking at him lying down pathetically on his back, belly exposed, staring up at them dreamily. He was the one companion Sherlock trusted beyond reason.

The dog had long ginger hair that was almost red, hence the name he so proudly gave him in his pirate phase. It hurt to admit, but the name still fit like a glove.

Sherlock questioned her as to the location of the party, seeing the dog intertwined in an eternity embrace.

She had no idea either, except that it was at Sebastian’s house. Where that was located, neither of them had the slightest idea- and Sherlock would, if needed, go out of his way to inform anyone who cared to listen that he didn’t care in the least. He asked who was going to be there and the conclusion was rather disappointing: mostly rugby players and, of course, Anderson. A subtle form of torture.

“Well, whatever. it’ll be fun.” She tried to extract herself from the dog, and her costume rode almost all the way up her thighs. It was meant to be a ‘sexy’ costume, Sherlock supposed. It was a funny subject to consider. As far as he knew, everyone thougth of him as either straight or asexual- ‘freak’ wasn’t really a sexual orientation; but most girls, including Irene at that moment, seemed to think of him, subconsciously, as harmless, they’d figured out they didn’t need to feel self-conscious around Sherlock. Or maybe that was just how Irene was. Her behaviour was still not completely predictable. She was not the easiest to deduce.

Sherlock saw her glancing at the kitchen and at the clock and he knew the appropriate thing to do was to offer her food, so he did. Social clues mandate that he shall behave in such a way and that he shan’t behave in other ways. So he proceeds accordingly.

After eating at an alarming speed, she suggested that they put on their costumes and his teeth grit without his consent as he reminded the sneaky manipulative woman where the bathroom was, as well as the fact that he was not dressing up. Not that day. Not ever. She said “it was worth a try” and made her way upstairs.

She took a long time, which was acceptable since they had the need to be at Lestrade's after eight. When she emerged from the washing room and walked down the stairs, interrupting his thought process about writing a quick email to H, Sherlock tried his best not to judge the costume. It was a hard thing to do. Even his costume of a nurse when he had needed to sneak into a restricted section of St Bart’s had been more appropriate. And had had a much better quality.

xxxxxx

Sebastian bumped fists with Mike and Lestrade when they walked in, nodding in Sherlock’s direction as an acknowledgement and smiling at the girls just behind him. He did not want to be there either, mate.  _ Back off _ .

And there was this throb of music and random bursts of laughter and people holding cans with so much more alcohol than coke he could smell it from where he was standing. He was feeling too out of his depth, already. Sherlock was not used to that and he did not want to get used to it. He knew he’d have to prepare himself for an unbearable night. And a big headache.

There were too many people at once, too much information to process. Just. Too much.

When drinks were offered to them, Molly immediately refused and asked for water instead; Irene, on the other hand, asked immediately for the strongest drink they had, receiving a disapproving look from Molly. They were near to opposites. Good behavioral lab rats. Bad people to be around when Sherlock needed some peace and quiet.

He ended up with a beer in hand, following his designated group as heads turned to ogle at Irene. There was a rumour going around where people called her the ‘Dominatrix’ and ‘The Woman’?. Such rumours were started by Mary perfection herself. Not that they had been wrong. The first deduction Sherlock had made about Irene was of some weird aspects of her sexual life he wanted nothing to have to do with.

Mike had moved towards the food, there was no need for confirmation on that part; Lestrade and Molly argued about something or the other and he lost sight of Irene a few minutes after that.

Sherlock could see the tension in everyone’s bodies, as they felt unsure about their costumes. He could hear people saying he’s chosen to dress up as a ‘freak’- no, wait, He’d always been one. They really didn’t have a drop of originality in their funny little brains.

He wished he were home with Redbeard. Even the dog would have something more intelligent to share.

There were bursts of wild, drunk laughter once in a while; then people snogged and yelled at each other. It was appalling, atrocious. Everyone looked familiar, but most of their names were Greek to him. Which was fine. He was not one to care for idiots.

Sherlock sat in a corner, wishing for the hell to cease, and when he looked around, he noticed Molly sitting right next to him. His mind was hazy and the beer stopped tasting badly after the first few sips. Still, he could see her infatuation from where he was sitting.

Someone turned the stereo on and his mind began to spin. Sherlock kept thinking about H and imagining who he’d be. Victor Trevor appeared and he realised he would not hate it if it turned out to be him. He was not unintelligent; he was not unattractive; he had never called Sherlock a ‘freak’ to his face; and he seemed to hate classes and idiotic teachers as much as he did.

Molly asked how much he’d had to drink and her facial expressions yelled ‘worried’ at his brain; but he couldn’t see her any longer. His vision blurred and he noticed that his little buble had some new members joining it, bursting it. Disrupting it even further. Irene and the moron were looking at him.

Sherlock saw Anderson look at her lips. He wanted to kiss her. He was not drunk enough to keep reading the other disgusting thoughts coursing through that mind.

Sherlock had never kissed anyone- he settled for considering. Sherlock was almost certain H hadn’t either. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, now.

He needed to get out of there. To leave. Split. Disappear.

xxxxxx

Molly dropped them off at Lestrade’s at midnight, and from there it was a seven minute walk to his house. The indoor lights were off everywhere, but the neighborhood was still lit up orange. There were a few smashed pumpkins and lots of toilet paper tangled through branches. And Mrs Hudson had the audacity to call Sherlock’s experiments a waste of resources.

It was really chilly and unnaturally quiet- if Irene weren’t with him, he would’ve had to drown out the silence with his mind. But it was considered rude to ignore others. And he needed to convince her to help him out. Or manipulate her into it. Either way. Her Wonder … Female? costume seemed too cold. He wouldn’t offer his jacket, however, for he was cold as well.

She was going to ask Sherlock something. Her hands twitched in his direction in an extremely obvious way and she swallowed down the dryness of her throat. As she did, he could smell the alcohol scent emanating from her.

“What?”

“So, Anderson was talking to me when you were dozed off.” He wanted to protest. He did not doze off. Did not. Just tried to drown out the noise those idiots had insisted on making. “maybe I’m reading it wrong, but he was talking about homecoming, and he brought it up like three times.” She sighed. Shook her head.

“He didn’t ask you to the dance, though. Just made you uncomfortable enough to plan how to refuse if he had.” The boy was a true moron.

“He’s a nice enough guy,” she told herself, more than she told him. Sherlock strongly disagreed. “Anyway, you two seem like you talk very often,” wrong “so, if he mentions it, just tell him I already have a date.” Sherlock did know for a fact that she did not, in fact, have a ‘date’. “I’d like to avoid that.”

He agreed to it, nonetheless. And she asked who he planned on taking. He quickly reminded her he had no intention in even showing up, much less choosing a ‘date’. Either that or they would drag him and he would end up sitting at a corner, once again, just like he had tonight. She insisted on the idea that Sherlock should consider asking Molly. She thought he was attracted to her. She was wrong. He knew of Molly’s infatuation towards him. He used it to his advantage. He did under no circumstances like her. Irene insisted they would look ‘cute’ together. The physical appearance of them together made no difference in his mind. 

They fell quiet, again.

She asked if she could spend the night. Sherlock agreed. He didn’t care in the least. Mycroft was not home to bother him, or complain about his decisions. Mrs Hudson- the governess- was already asleep, as it was customary by this hour. She knew Sherlock was gay, so finding a female sleeping in one of the guest’s rooms wouldn’t even make her flinch. Still, he forced himself to stay on the couch as she made herself comfortable in the unoccupied room next to Sherlock’s. He wouldn’t sleep. He just wanted to throw up and be alone and shoot a wall and stab his desk with the knife he’d sharpened the previous day.

Redbeard was already passed out on the floor. Sherlock threw himself at the couch cushions and didn’t bother undressing, or changing his attire. Why should he? He needed something familiar. He needn’t suffer like that.

He took hold of his violin. The house was too big for the sound of it to disturb the guest. Not that he’d care. Because he didn’t. Sherlock was wide awake and electrified with energy. He needed to spend some time in his head. There was something irregular about the whole situation. He couldn’t even describe it to himself.

Every moment his being shifted. First, he’s himself. Alone. Alive. Then he had friends. And he was still himself. But now: he was not himself any longer. He didn’t know who he was. What he was. Then he had a beer. And he stopped feeling like himself and became himself again and again. The paradoxed cicle confusing him. And again. The pieces that composed Sherlock Holmes shifted and glued themselves together in an infinity of alternatives. He was not himself. But he’d never felt so much like Sherlock.

xxxxxx

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 1 at 11:12 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Halloween**

W,

I hope your Halloween was excellent, god knows mine was. Things were quiet around here, although I kept wishing you’d change your mind on the costume front. I only ate about twelve pieces of candy (mostly kit-kats). Which, of course, means I’ll have to eat at least another eight just to make it an even twenty.

I can’t believe it’s already almost homecoming. I’m excited about it. Make no mistake, I think some traditions are silly, but I still enjoy the rugby game that is so important this season. I guess it’s something about the lights and the drumbeats and the scent of the air. Fall air always smells like possibility. Or maybe I just like ogling the cheerleaders. You know me. :)

Are you doing anything interesting this weekend? Any experiments with human flesh or poisons involved? We’re supposed to have suck nice weather. 

-H

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 1 at 11:14 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Halloween**

Oh, my lord! I meant SUCH nice weather. SUCH! 

Sorry.

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 1 at 5:31 PM**

**SUBJECT: Guilty pleasures**

Very amusing, H. Your flaws are most valuable to me, so do not worry yourself about it.

I guess condolences are in order, in regards to how few candies you were able to consume. What a waste. Next year I suggest you fake an indigestion and lock yourself in the washing room to eat your candies secretly. With any luck, you could share some with me.

I must admit: my secret pleasure is chocolate. However, I avoid consuming more than the recommended amount (which is nearly none). If you met my brother, you would understand my reasons. I am no longer allowed to call him ‘fatty’ for he surpassed that level. Now, it would suit him better to be called a small whale.

My Halloween was a complete misery and I am relieved yours was slightly more pleasant. I refrained from wearing any costumes, although you were very convincing.

Next weekend I intend to lock myself away and stay far from everyone- the usual. I like being alone; it reassures me that I’m the only one who knows who I am; that others do not know me beyond what I show and what I allow.

You mentioned homecoming, and I would have been happier if you hadn’t, for I want nothing but to forget that SUCK a mundane activity is happening. I do not enjoy the rugby games, simply because I think they are pointless- running after a ball that is not sphere shaped is rather tedious. I have been forced to attend a few, but I didn’t even know the rules, so pretending to enjoy it was also out of the question. 

I figured you’d be “ogling” the cheerleaders. Keeping a facade, no? Exhausting, no?

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 2 at 1:43 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Guilty pleasures**

Hahaha! Very funny.

But really:

Chocolate? You? I can actually almost see it. I hold a strong opinion that chocolates are better than sex itself, don’t you think? Admittedly, I wouldn’t know, but sometimes I hope I’m wrong about this one. Maybe heterosexual sex. Just saying, but girls do complain a lot, and they seem to enjoy chocolate too. Maybe we’ll have to make an experiment and compare notes later.

:)

I understand what you mean about rugby, but I would love to teach you the rules, if you’d like. It would be a real pleasure to see you, a mad genius, enjoying a rugby game like us simpletons. 

I understand what you mean about being by yourself. The only times I feel like myself are when I’m alone. Or when I’m talking to you. It has nothing to do with people. It has to do with me, I guess. I just have the urge to snap and punch people, at times, but I always hold myself back. I bet you don’t need to. I bet you punch whoever you want and don’t care for the consequences. That is very badass of you. (Though, to put it in your terms, you do not have a bad gluteus maximus, it just means you’re cool in a not-body temperature related way). You’re simply brilliant.

There’s so much I want to talk to you about, but I’m sure as soon as I do, you’ll figure out who I am and I’m not ready for that yet. And I don’t think you are either. You are brilliant enough to deduce who I am if you were. Obviously, some of the things I’ve told you about myself are things I’ve never talked about with anyone. There’s something about you that makes me want to open up. Like you’re capable of reading between the lines even if you don’t want to. That’s very terrifying.

I hope this isn’t too awkward. I know you’re not a very open person and that you probably don’t love physical contact and romantic gestures as much as us morons do. Still. I trust you.

I hope you trust me too. I really fucking do. Effing do. I don’t even know if you cuss, sorry.

And although we aren’t ready to reveal who we are, yet, I find myself ever curious about you. And your human skull, I guess.

-H

P.S. I’d love to be able to send you some chocolates via email. I hope this attachment is enough, though. Enjoy.

[attachment]

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 3 at 6:37 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Guilty pleasures**

H,

True, I can deduce your job by looking at your left thumb. But when you control the information you share, the data I receive is not enough. Too scarce.

I feel flattered by your trust in my person, although I do not recommend it. I must admit our emails are, indeed, important for me, too. 

I don’t know whether chocolate is better than sex or not. How could I? but chocolate is really incredible, and I do believe it’s better than heterosexual sex a.k.a. “intercourse” (per my health teacher).

Non-hetero sex, though? I imagine it might be better than chocolate. Is it weird that I, a machine by design, can’t contain the blush in my cheeks? This is bullocks.

Anyway, thank you for the photo. That is exactly the kind of chocolate I like. I would search for some in my kitchen, but I doubt any survived my brother’s hunger. He loves to raid our supplies every time he comes home.

-W

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, just know I'll update as soon as I possibly can and I'm glad there's at least someone reading my work and reaching this part. Thank you. Truly.  
> Thank you!  
> -CGM


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated earlier than expected. Hope you enjoy.  
> -CGM

Wednesday was what the school insisted on calling “gender bender” day. Which, basically, consisted on the students cross-dressing. It was not his favourite. In fact, it was one of the worst bloody days of the entire year.

Their English teacher was forcing them to watch a movie called “Twelfth Night” and it was absolutely worse than any crap telly Mrs Hudson was so fond of. Anyhow, the film was certainly an attempt at a joke. An unfunny one.

The rugby players had taken over the school and its gossip, by wearing the cheerleaders’ uniforms- specifically Lestrade, Mike, Sebastian and John. That was generally what the “jocks” did for that ridiculous day. 

Sherlock did admit there was something intriguing about those players in tiny shirts. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. He’d maintain his position of the opposite.

He couldn’t believe John Watson dressed up, though. John from his lunch table. He was this short boy who was supposed to be really smart, though to whose standards Sherlock didn’t know. People seemed to think he was pleasant to hang out with. Easy going. Funny even. He had the vague notion that he had good grades. At least ones that ‘Exceeded Expectations’ of most teachers, when compared to other ‘jocks’. Sherlock must have erased it. 

John leaned back into his seat, shuffling the toe of one foot against the other, and he’d never noticed before- assuming all sports players were as moronic as Sebastian- but he had an adorable face. Regarding the social construct and statistics.

The teacher had started with the movie and Sherlock drowned all the information out. At least, he tried to. It was hard when Irene, with a fake beard, entered the class room and made everyone laugh. Almost everyone, at that. If it had been him, the ‘freak’, arriving late, the teachers would have had me hanged. But she was the sweetheart in everyone’s heart. Molly seemed as displeased as him. She and Irene didn’t get along. He didn’t need this information. so he’d simply delete it, then.

Sherlock’s group of acquaintances questioned his lack of female attire. Lestrade had even attempted to decorate his precious hair with the extra pink hair-pins Mike had brought. They should have known him by then. Shouldn’t have had their hopes up. Idiots.

The classroom door opened, and there stood Philip Anderson. He was wearing a cheerleading uniform as well, although he was not part of any team as far as Sherlock’s knowledge on the subject went. Not that he’d ever care. He didn’t. 

Anderson had gone to the trouble of stuffing his chest with weirdly realistic breasts. He was tall. Not as tall as Sherlock. But that lead to the amount of skin on display to be excessive. Obscene, really. Disgusting enough for him to look away in nausea.

People whistled at him. People called him ‘hot’. Not body temperature hot, H would remind him, were he here. Maybe he was. Just the thought made a feeling of bliss spread through him. Eliminating the previous nausea.

xxxxxx

On Friday, the math and science hallway was covered in hay. The school couldn’t be any more ridiculous. It was about three inches thick under Sherlock’s feet. Dust rose off the ground, and even the light looked different. A headache started to form.

From all the music to choose from, all the genres in the world, these idiots had to choose country. They just had to pick the most atrocious one. Which is why he was walking around accompanied by Mike, who was wearing a bandana and a cowboy hat. Abominable.

To sum up: homecoming ‘sucks’ and country music is appalling.

But the hay, oh the awful hay. It made it impossible to attend the only interesting classes there- chemistry and biology- without his pants getting full of dust. Disgusting.

When he finally got to lunch, he almost lost it and went home. Almost. The younger students were dressing up as well. Sherlock caught a glimpse of a few with either fake badges or cowboy boots and hats and he just barely resisted the urge to bang his head against a wall.

Anderson tried to catch his eye from the table next to theirs. Sherlock turned his head. Avoiding him had become a reflex by now. At that point, he was just glad it was.

Sherlock sat between Molly and Mike, who didn’t even stop their argument. It must have been one of those about a celebrity that he had never heard of. There was too much noise, so he glared at them until they stopped. The subject shifted to the game that was going to take place that night, which meant he would probably not escape alive. Maybe he’d just kill himself, so it would be quicker. He’d fight them, nonetheless. Even if the thought of sitting on the same bleachers as H did cross through his mind like a surge of adrenaline. He liked rugby, therefore he would most likely be there.

xxxxxx

The game started at seven- Molly said that, if he went, she’d ask her uncle who worked in the morgue for a couple of more eyeball samples (brown, Sherlock had specified)- but there was a parade at six. He met with the group at Lestrade’s and he drove them to school. 

It was too crowded. Had it always been like that? It was his first game at that school. Only now did he realize it. Unimportant realization. It took them at least ten minutes to find a parking spot. The lights that were pointing to the field make his head ache and his eyes itch.

The bleachers were too full and Sherlock found himself looking for a face he wouldn’t even recognize. He’d bet H loved those dreadful lights. He must have been there, somewhere. He must have been a part of the masses of people milling around in the field. They paid a couple of dollars and were given tickets that allowed their entrance, and in they went. The music made no sense. It was about to rain. He didn’t understand why anyone would like any of that.

H was a mystery. And oh, did Sherlock love a good mystery.

There was a mixture of Christmas lights and country decorations. The parade was ending and the people were ridiculously and unnecessarily happy and enthusiastic. As it turned out, the contestants were judged by the amount of ‘spirit’ shown.

There was only so much one could do with a headache and moronic peers around.

It seemed those kids wanted to feel as if they were part of something. He hated it. The feeling of fitting in and disappearing into the crowd. Especially when he had to squeeze his way in a crowd just to get to the seat he didn’t want to sit on. The bleachers were just as bad and he had to resist the temptation of leaving a trail of dead bodies. Now that would be a good sport to practice.

He ended up sitting next to Victor Trevor, so close that they were almost on each other’s laps. He showed the signs of someone who clearly enjoyed those games very much and probably didn’t miss any. Sherlock’s mind worked faster as he connected some points and possibilities.

He greeted Sherlock with a smile that was not fake. He said his name.  _ Sherlock _ . Most people, apart from his closest group, called him either Holmes or ‘freak’. He liked Sherlock. Very much. He was just lucky no one knew his first name was William.

If there had been the slightest chance that Victor was H- Sherlock’s H- then there was no shame in almost sitting on his lap. It was actually very unfortunate that it was not literal.

He was not sure whether he should have said something. If he should, he was not sure what it was supposed to be, either. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a game,” Victor added to the greeting. He’d noticed. He hadn’t erased Sherlock from his mind.

He admitted that it was his first time and tried to hold his blush at the double meaning of his words. Why? He didn’t know, honestly. Victor remained calm, but the edge of his lip quirked slightly and Sherlock knew he had noticed. He must think he hadn’t noticed. That it was his little secret.

Sherlock tried to think of a way to ask the thing he couldn’t ask Victor. Maybe if he mentioned something about chocolates, just to see how he’d react. But if he did and he really was H, he’d know immediately that Sherlock was W. And as he thought about it, really pondered and weighed the options presented to him, he didn’t think he was ready for that.

Doubting himself was absurd. But then again, so was sentiment. Emotions. And he seemed to be too involved and in touch with his.

Unfortunately, someone Sherlock knew well enough- and wished he didn’t- tapped him in the shoulder. Anderson grinned at him. He was in the mood for conversation. So much for attempting conversation with Victor. He looked at Irene and down at his hands. He asked her to the dance and she turned him down. Dull.

“You have to understand that I cannot force someone to accept your invitations.” There was no need for whispering, for the players just entered the field: John Watson as the captain, Lestrade, Mike and Sebastian followed suit by others. He did not care to even read the names off their backs. They were all so cheerful. H must have been enjoying it. He was doing all that for him. H.

He didn’t know what would trigger Anderson, so he spoke as little as possible. Good.

“If you’re going to blame me for your humiliation, just know that I did what you asked and gave you an opening.” Sherlock clarified. 

“Whatever,” he said. Anderson was not giving up. If he didn’t give up- Sherlock was on the palm of his hands until he found leverage to fight him. Maybe he would hold them over his head forever.

Sherlock actually couldn’t think of anything that would make him more miserable than that.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 11 at 11:45 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: all of the above**

H,

Your writing is acceptable to my standards; your poetry, however, reaches a level of atrociousness unimaginable. Did you seriously rhyme orange with storage? “Your heart’s storage”? Please do not pursue SUCK a career. If you'd prefer, I'll allow you to join me when I start to solve crimes as a job. You’ll be a good substitute for Bill (my human skull- I have to specify for I only speak to that one, since it would be anticlimactic to believe it productive to speak with animals’ skulls). At least you could make sure I don’t offend anyone to the point of getting shot. It's gotten closer than I'd like to admit.

And you could make sure there’s always a chocolate supply nearby. For the both of us.

Anyway, I forgive your attempt at killing me with your terrible poem. You didn’t realize you were talking to a judgemental big dick. Yes, I’ve been called that multiple times.

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 12 at 5:37 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: all of the above**

W,

It’s true, I didn’t know I was talking to someone so judgemental. The big dick part, however, I’ll have to check for myself. ;)

I promise that I’ll always be here to provide chocolates for your adventures. You clearly have a sweet tooth.

-H

[attachment]

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 13 at 7:55 PM**

**SUBJECT: Sweet tooth?**

I can’t believe you’d think that. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about my yearning for chocolates. So, if you are planning on telling anyone about it, I’ll be forced to carefully plan your murder. Step by step. No one will ever catch me, I assure you. But I promise to attend your funeral.

Now, your tendency to use smiley faces is tolerable, until you start making them wink at me. You have to understand that that is not correct grammar.

Now, typing this made me remember that I actually was able to hide a chocolate from my brother. Is it peculiar to fantasize about food, just because others cannot have it. Life is funny that way. Humiliating others is an excellent motivator.

I guess murder and torture is what I chose to fantasize about instead of sex. Specially as a kid, and the victim was my 'dear' BIG brother.

-assassin/murderer W

  
  


**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 14 at 10:57 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Sweet tooth?**

Dear murderer,

I am pleased to know you’d risk yourself just to attend my funeral (after murdering me).

Seriously, I have never planned someone’s murder. Sounds interesting, though. If you ever need help to hide a body, I’m surprisingly okay with helping you do it.

Just not on the carnival weekend. I would hate to miss it. Especially when the fair has a Tilt-A-Whirl. I’ll spare you the details, but once I vomited twice because I had twenty-three tickets and I had just eaten and I didn't want the tickets to go to waste, since it was the last day. Long story short, my friends don’t sit beside me during carnival fairs anymore.

I like to imagine you as a kid, planning you brother’s murder. Must have been full of torture.

I also like to imagine you, now, fantasizing about sex. I can’t believe I just wrote that. I can’t believe I’m hitting send.

-A Very Embarrassed H 

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading  
> -CGM


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrong...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments you've been leaving here. I'm excited others are enjoying this  
> _CGM

He liked to imagine SHERLOCK fantasizing about sex.  _ SHERLOCK. _

He probably shouldn’t have read that before bed. That was something he should definitely not have read right before going to bed. His mind was racing in an unfamiliar way. As if he were underwater and didn’t have enough oxygen.

He kept lying in pitch-darkness, reading that particular line on his phone again and again. Feeling jittery and awake. His whole body was made of knots. All from an email. All from a simple sentence. A small, simple phrase.

_ I also like to imagine you, now, fantasizing about sex. _

And he was hard. And it felt strange. It was strange. Sherlock understood the procedure; but everything was medical terms and mechanics in his brain. No actual experience to compare data.

It was really confusing. A good kind of confusing. H was always so careful about what he wrote.

He liked to think about Sherlock fantasizing about sex! He enjoyed it, he found it appealing, he reveled in it. Probably enough to get off on it.

He thought himself a lunatic for having those kinds of thoughts about them, every so often. He had thought he was the only one who had those kinds of thoughts about them. Not that he ever allowed himself to indulge in them.

Sherlock wondered what it would be like to meet H in person. After all that time. Would they even have to speak? Would they need to? Would they go straight to ‘making out’? No. Maybe. Yes. Definitely. He thought, for the first time, he could picture it: H in his bedroom and they were totally alone. H sitting beside him on the bed and turning to look at him with his blue-green eyes. Victor Trevor's eyes. Having a mental image of a subject always helped. And then his hands would cup Sherlock’s face. And all of a sudden, H was kissing him.

Sherlock’s hands cupped his own face. Well. His left hand cupped his face. His right hand was occupied. Exploring.

He pictured it: H kissing him, and it being nothing like the thrill of an experiment or a murder. He couldn’t even describe it. It wasn’t not even in the same stratosphere. There was this electricity-like feeling that radiated through his body. Through his whole being and his brain had gone fuzzy and he actually thought he could hear his heartbeat. If not, then the blood in his ears was surely about to reach his brain and make it explode.

He had to be so, so quiet. Not that anyone would hear. But he’d feel ashamed if he had to admit out loud to the universe that he had needed release just like everyone else. That he was but a slave to his body’s urges.

H’s tongue in his mouth. his hands sliding up under his purple silk shirt, and the imaginary feeling of him trailing his fingers across Sherlock’s chest. He was so close. To an unknown edge he felt the temptation to throw himself into. It was almost unbearable. Almost painful.  _ God.  _ H.

His whole body turned to jelly.

xxxxxx

On Monday, during lunch, it was someone’s birthday. Everyone in their usual table was wearing party hats and it had felt like the perfect excuse for Sherlock to slip away with a slice of chocolate cake without anyone even noticing he was gone. They were excited with something they denominated as a ‘golden birthday’ because whoever it was, turned seventeen on the seventeenth. Why must people put so much effort into making him hate them, he didn’t know.

As he walked away, he could hear Mary telling everyone that she should eat more than others because her metabolism was so ‘fast’ that she didn’t get fat. Lie. She exercised everyday and was too self-conscious when the subject was one’s weight. Sherlock thought people would not condemn him if he did throw that girl off a window at least seventeen times. Oh! Golden murder!

He strode toward his next class’ classroom and sat in front of it, back to the wall, cake in hand (the slice of cake was good, but small) and opened a book that he had no interest in reading. A body slided down the wall beside him and nudged his foot with the toe of their shoe. Victor.

He didn’t attempt to make conversation. He didn’t try chit-chat or small-talk. He didn’t say anything at all. 

Until he did. “How was that cake?”

Well. If Sherlock was already buried in the whole thing, why not risk some more. 

“Well, it was chocolate, so..” he had needed to put something out there.

“That’s cool,” Victor said. “Though I prefer yogurt.”

No discernible reaction. A total apaling opinion toward cake flavours. Disappointment. Sherlock was wrong. He had assumed with insufficient data. Mistake.

For some unfathomable reason, Victor did not stand up and walk away. He did not. He should had had.

Instead, he chose to lean closer to Sherlock so their shoulders brushed for the briefest fraction of a second. Sherlock felt absolutely nothing. He had been wrong and he was alone. Sentiment: a mistake. He still felt nothing.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 18 at 4:15 AM**

**SUBJECT: Why why why?**

H,

I haven’t slept in roughly seventy-one and a half hours. Do you ever have one of those random days where your brain won’t shut off? What about a week like that? My body feels like five hundred pounds and exhausted. I’m just going to email you and this will probably be very incoherent and there will be no judgement from your part, because I said so.

Even if I struggle with grammar or even curse. I know you check your grammar when writing, but my head is too full and I need to clear it. To delete something.

An acquaintance of mine mentioned that there were these ‘dates’ where people meet in a pitch-dark room. And I thought we should do that. We can find a broom closet at school and hang out there and still stay anonymous from one another.

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 18 at 7:15 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Why why why?**

Zombie W,

I don’t know what to say. On the one hand, I’m sorry you’re pretty much guaranteed a shitty day today, and I really hope you were able to squeeze in at least an hour or two of sleep. 

On the other hand, you are pretty cute when you’re exhausted. And by the way, you were very coherent and grammatically correct for four in the morning. I will make a deduction: you don’t sleep that much, ever. Like, you are beyond a night owl.

I guess you’ll just have to power through today. I'm rooting for you.

Also, I have absolutely never heard of SUCK a date, but I don’t date that much, so it's not really that much of a surprise. Or at all. It’s an interesting concept, but how would we keep from recognizing each other’s voices?

-your cheerleader H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Nov 18 at 7:32 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re:Why why why?**

I’m glad you found my rant to be up to your standards. I did end up passing out for a couple of hours at my desk before my alarm went off. My brain is still totally dead, though.

You don’t ‘date’ that much? I doubt anyone could resist you. If you were 'out', I mean. Well. At least I wouldn't.

About our voices: that is a good, but simple to resolve problem. There are cheap voice-altering devices. I've got at least three of those. Something interesting about the number three: there seems to be something comforting about it, for I stopped looking and so would other people, probably. Anyhow. Either that or we could do something instead of talking. I’m just saying. After all, I’m the crazy one here.

-Your Zombie W

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. If you have any notes or ideas, remember I'll make an effort to answer every comment, so please feel free to say anything. Even if it's to say you didn't like something. Thank you!  
> -CGM


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot happens. Sometimes we just feel empty, no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support!!!!!!!!!  
> -CGM

It was the weekend and Mycroft was home. Sherlock was mentally complaining about this fact as he was cuddling with Redbeard.

To make his bad mood worse, Anderson sent him a text.

_ Is there anything going on this weekend _

Simple as that. The baboon seemed to have forgotten about punctuation. Not surprising.

_ like w Irene I mean _

Sherlock’s answer was short, straightforward and contained as little detailed as possible information about having his brother in town from university, making it impossible to attend any party.

_ don’t worry ’s cool _

_ My brother’s in town too  _

_ … _

It was clearly a threat. But Anderson must have been laughing his ass out. He must have thought it had been a great joke. He was wrong. As usual.

Sherlock hated him. Despised him. Loathed him.

Redbeard seemed to sense his hatred, as well as distress, and licked his face. It helped less than he had needed it to. Still, everything was a little better with him there.

xxxxxx

The next day of classes, their Biology teacher gave them a specific smile that was only ever present when she was about to hand out their graded papers. The lines on her face as she picked up the pile proved him corrected: the class average was low. As always. With at least ten idiots lowering it and around three people who at least didn’t disappoint.

And he was right. She started handing them back to people and most were wrecked with red ink. And most people’s faces became wrecked with panic as they received theirs. Amusing.

The teacher flipped through the pile and licked her disformed finger before touching Sherlock’s paper. Foul and gross gesture. 

When he saw the ‘94’ circled at the top of his paper he’s astonished. Outraged. Surprised, really. Almost ready to make an argument and defend himself from prejudice. Not that he cared about his grades. He could get anywhere he wanted to, if so he wished. He just liked standing out from all the other dimwits.

And wasn’t he correct. Again. That was not his test. She had mistaken him on purpose. A lot of teachers did not seem to appreciate his deductions or opinions on how to give a lecture.

Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned across the aisle to tap John Watson on the shoulder. He turned sideways in his chair to face him. “Looks like this is yours,” he stretched the hand where he held the paper for the boy to take.

“Oh, thanks.,” he answered, reaching out to take it as a smile spread through his face. His hands were small, compared to Sherlock’s. Cute, He’d dare say. But useless observation. strange one at that. He looked down at the paper, glanced back up at him, and blushed slightly. Sherlock could tell he felt weird about him seeing his grade- especially after he gave him his paper with a perfect score scribbled on it. “I wouldn’t mind keeping yours, though.” An attempt at a joke.

He smiled a bit and looked back at his open book. His thoughts were written across his face. Sherlock’s instincts informed him that perhaps he shouldn’t meddle. He didn’t even know why such politeness had chosen to strike him at that moment. He felt like he deserved to have his privacy and keep his mask on for the rest of the idiots in this room.

xxxxxx

When Sherlock walked into Chemistry that afternoon, Irene was sitting at her desk with her eyes closed and her lips moving. He could read the words and knew that she was memorizing something related to mitosis. Dull. Boring. Easy.

She was stressed about the test that would take place the next week. Last time he approached her in a similar state, she told him it was easy for him to not be anxious because he was ‘freakishly gifted’. That was when he realized her status would stop at ‘close acquaintance’ and never reach the mark of ‘friend’.

He rolled his eyes at her and saw Anderson glaring at him. The idea of the baboon taking the moral high ground when he was in the middle of blackmailing Sherlock- just so bloody precious.

If he wanted to impress anyone- especially Irene- he should have stopped being a twitchy, stalker. He clearly didn’t realize he was doing it.

Sherlock turned around, away from him, and sat on his chair, away from most people, hidden in the back, by the window. He closed his eyes and rested his racing head.

He only snapped back to reality when the whispering around him stopped and the bell sounded. As he put his books inside his bag, Victor caught his eye and smiled at him. He did not reciprocate. Why would he bother doing so?

Victor quirked an eyebrow and stalked away. Sherlock let him.

He knew it was not Victor and Victor did not understand and did not make jokes about dead people’s skins as masks and he was not H. He was not H.

Of course, as soon as Sherlock started making his way toward his car, it started pouring and he arrived home soaking wet. Bloody brilliant. The skies were out to get him, surely.

Mrs Hudson was waiting for him with a warm towel and a cup of tea and some biscuits. He thought he could handle being alone for a little while longer. Because, really, he didn’t feel that lonely.

That was a lie.

xxxxxx

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 2 at 5:02 PM**

**SUBJECT: I should be…**

...writing an essay for History class. I’d rather write to you, though. I’m in my room, and I have a window right next to my desk. It’s so cloudy out, and it looks like it must be really cold outside. I feel like a kid in a Christmas movie. That would be a dream.

So, W, I have to confess that I have been curious about your email address for a long time. I finally broke down and started looking for people with blond hair at school. I know it’s a long shot. And I know it’s really unfair, because I shouldn’t be trying to figure out your identity when I don’t give you any good clues about my own. There’s actually a lot of people with light hair colors, some natural, some fake, but none seem to act like I imagine you would. None seem to hold themselves as high as I imagine you do; none seem to have SUCK an inspecting gaze upon others; no one judges, evaluates, inspects them like I am certain you do.

After you told me you like to play the violin I’ve searched for some songs. I hope that doesn’t freak you out. I really liked them. Somehow, they fit you and remind me of you. It’s not so much as the overall mood of the songs, but more like the precision of every movement; the preciseness needed. I can imagine you, near a window, in your room, chewing on a piece of chocolate as you tuck the instrument under your chin and closing your eyes and, knowing how brilliant you are, composing a piece beautiful enough to make anyone cry.

As this email is completely random in terms of subject, here’s another thing: It’s almost Christmas and my mom is probably going to get drunk at home, with me and my sister (she'll be the only one doing the drinking!). We’ll open the presents and watch some trash telly. Which drives home the fact that, after he leaves on the 15th, I won’t see my father until New Year’s. And, I am actually considering doubling down on the awkward factor and turning this mess into a coming out thing. Maybe I should capitalize that: Coming Out Thing! Am I crazy?

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 2 at 9:13 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: I should be…**

H,

First thing, the fact that you have a window is already a good clue to start if I wanted to start looking for you. I would just have to notice the right decadence of colour on clothing and tanning of skin. Of course, probably a lot of students have a window near their desks as well, but it would narrow my options down by a lot.

Is that your intention? For me to pay attention in the halls? Maybe you’ll be eating candy.

Most importantly: the 'Coming Out Thing'. You are not insane, nor mad. You’re actually crucial to my well being and stability.

Are you are worried about how your father will react? Are you going to tell your mother, as well?

I am actually impressed that you bothered to listen to violin compositions. And everything you mentioned about the songs reminding you of me: flattering, really. I’m speechless, and you must know that is quite the accomplishment.

You are correct as to the closed eyes and composition. I’ve actually been composing a melody that is the musical translation of you. Us. Strange and exciting word, no? US.

It is, and I hate to say so, a waste of your time to try to figure out who I am by looking at people’s hairs. I will specify no more, but if you do wish to continue to think of me as confident and unique as you say, feel free to proceed. I like to see myself through your eyes. So much cleverer than I am in reality. Does that make sense?

Anyway, all things considered, I agree that this was a far more satisfying use of my time than writing your History essay. You are very distracting, so mine went unfinished, as well.

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 3 at 5:20 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: I should be…**

W,

I still haven’t decided if I’m really going through with it. It wasn’t something I thought I’d be doing anytime soon. I don’t know why, but lately, I’ve just felt the urge to put it out there. Maybe I just want to get it over with. What about you? Have you thought about the whole Coming Out Thing?

So, I know you and I can’t really buy each other gifts in real life, for Christmas and all, but just know if we could, I would rent you a stadium and let you play the violin for me for hours on end. Even if I would be an offence to your beautiful compositions. I don’t actually know anything about music- except the brief period of time I was forced to learn the clarinet when I was about eight- but I’m guessing it would be beautiful coming from you.

I’m glad that you find me distracting. And I find the thought of 'Us' exciting as well.

:)

It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.

-H

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Any ideas you'd like to add, just go ahead! I promise to answer!!!!  
> -CGM


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!  
> -CGM

It was thursday and Sherlock was in English class. Apparently, the teacher whose dog just died, had asked him a question, because everyone was looking right at him like he owed them something. Which he clearly did not. He shifted, making his body look taller. Scarier. More intimidating. More powerful. And he looked the teacher in the eye as he answered her question without a second of hesitation. Just the confidence in his answer was enough to assure anyone looking that he knew what he was talking about. Even if he hadn’t.

When he thought about it, it was incomprehensible that teachers believed they got to dictate what one thought about. It was not enough to sit there quietly and let them do a horrible job of ‘shaping’ the minds of hundreds of morons. They thought they had a right to control their minds. And if they couldn’t, they looked for any reason to apprehend them and get them in trouble.

Sherlock didn’t care about blue curtains; unless they had drying blood stains in them. He didn’t want to know about the light glistening through some window; unless it showed him the dust pattern a culprit left behind.

What he wanted was to sit there and think about H. Sherlock believed he was starting to get a little obsessed with him. Not good. Borderline dangerous. On the one hand, he was so careful all the time about not giving up any details about himself- and then he turned around and told Sherlock all kinds of personal information, and it was the kind of stuff he could totally use to figure out H’s identity if he really wanted to. And he did want to. But he also didn’t. Paradoxes were illogical. Confusing. H was confusing.

Sherlock probably could deduce who he was from his username alone. “h78” 78 can be a number of things; but he did. Not. Want. To. Know… Yet.

Once the class was over, he saw Anderson moving closer to the back: where Irene and hi, sat. Every time, that guy. He even climbed over someone’s chair.

He asked how they ‘were doing’. He didn’t take his eyes away from her. Sherlock ignored what he said selectively, waiting for when it turned to something he needed to defend himself from. After what he could say with certainty was an uncomfortable moment, Anderson announced he wanted to talk to him. He blushed when Irene brushed past him to grab her bag.

“I was thinking I could introduce you to my brother. You guys have a lot in common. Maybe I could give you his… email?” A careless threat. He was showing him he did not back down. Neither would Sherlock, if it weren’t for the variables.

Irene found that, as she put it, ‘adorable’. For some unfathomable reason.

It was none of Anderson’s business, the matters of his personal life. But if he did anything to get back at him, he would expose his anonymous identity and Sherlock would lose H.

He cleared his throat and prepared his body’s muscles to fake contentment for the words about to leave his mouth.

“You know, we could go to Angelo’s to review those biology terms you were having trouble with, Irene. I noticed both of you are just as daft and out of your depths, so I’ll just teach that to you myself so your confused faces stop distracting me.” Lie. Lie. Lie lie lie. All lies. He hated- despised, even- his life. He hated himself.

They agreed and Sherlock braced himself for a stinging headache.

He was officially doing it. He was letting a moron blackmail him. He couldn’t explain what he felt. Disgusted by himself was at the top of the bloody list. 

xxxxxx

And then it was Friday, and his order of chips was cold and he hadn’t consumed a single one. Anderson was tiresome. But that was not news. And one needn’t be a genius to deduce so. He hadn’t stopped asking Irene questions. It was the first time Sherlock had ever felt something close to pity toward someone that wasn’t himself. Of course, at that moment, he pitied himself above all.

_ Do you like this? What’s your favourite food? Where did you live before you moved here? Is that in the south? No? Is Wonder Double X chromosome your favorite superhero? Do you know green lantern? What about the riddler? Do you like it here? What do you miss the most? What’s your favourite subject? What’s your relationship with your parents like? _

And whatever else he completely erased.

Anderson stretched and yawned in a weird vertical maneuver, and he watched as the idiot attempted to position his arm next to Irene’s on the table. She pulled her arm away immediately and scratched her shoulder.

It was almost physically painful to watch. Terrible. Complete disaster. And just even looking at Anderson was exhausting: huge eyes, long nose, poor excuse of facial hair, annoying expression. Blackmail-worthy information.

Sherlock only shook his head as the books fell unused on top of the table.

He could have been at home doing an experiment. He could have been home writing to H. He wished he were home writing to H.

He could be playing for him. H would listen to the chaos in his head translated into music and call him ‘brilliant’. And then Sherlock could kiss him and gasp ‘brilliant’ ‘brilliant’ ‘brilliant’ as his mind vanished into bliss. 

But reality did not disappear and opted for pulling him back into its dullness.

Instead, he had to listen to tedious and uninteresting questions being asked. Again and again and again.

“I’m never going to learn this.” Irene complained.

“We have until Christmas break.”

“Yeah, well, I bet Mary already memorised everything.” And that one actually made them collectively chuckle. The girl must think she was special, just because they didn’t call her a ‘freak’ to her face; like they did to his. But in her back, everyone showed their disdain. Who they really were; what they really thought. What was the expression? their true colourations, perhaps.

“I have a photographic memory.” They mimic.

“I have a really fast metabolism.”

“And a natural tan.”

They burst out laughing. Sherlock didn’t really understand it: finding something the idiot said amusing.

xxxxxx

**FROM:w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 6 at 6:19 PM**

**SUBJECT: The Coming Out Thing**

H,

Did you do it?

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 6 at 10:21 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: The Coming Out Thing**

Okay, I didn’t exactly do it.

I was going to. I was ready to. My father had everything ready for his departure- he is going to leave earlier: instead of the 15th, he leaves on the 8th and comes back earlier, too- beer in hand (if he doesn’t have a beer in hand, then he’s been abducted by aliens and a clone has taken his place). Anyway, it looked like he put a lot of effort to say goodbye to me and my sister without making her cry, which was nice. My stomach was churning, because I was truly planning on telling him. But I didn’t want to do it straight out of the gate, so I figured I’d wait until we finished helping him with the labels on the frozen food.

So, you know, you hear stories about people coming out to their parents, and the parents say they already knew somehow? Yeah, my dad isn’t going to say that. I’m officially certain that he has no idea I’m gay. It’s probably the only one hundred per cent deduction I have ever made. You should be proud of me. This based on what, you ask? Well, he gave me and my sister early Christmas presents: you will not believe what book he picked out to give me. “History of my life” by Casanova. Bloody CASANOVA.

Looking back, there was probably a perfect opportunity hiding in there somewhere. Maybe I should have asked him to exchange it for a book on how to play the violin. I don’t know, W. I guess it kind of stopped me in my tracks. But now I’m thinking it might be a blessing in disguise, because in a weird way, I think it would’ve hurt my feelings if I told my dad first. It can be a little complicated with my parents. This whole thing is really overwhelming.

Anyway, my new plan is: I’m going to tell my mom first. Not tomorrow, because tomorrow is Sunday and I don’t want to start my week with bad news, if she reacts badly.

Why is it so much easier talking about this stuff with you?

-H

P.S. Sorry about pouring all my problems here for you to absorb. Feel free to complain about any decaying carcass you weren’t able to steal from the morgue.

:)

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 7 at 4:46 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: The Coming Out Thing**

H,

I can’t believe you received that book. (He said, surprised.) I really wish I could be more surprised, but, unfortunately, I am not familiar with who that is. Nonetheless, my condolences.

I understand your refrain from telling him, though. I can’t wrap my head around the politics it must involve to have such a personal conversation. Believe me, I do wish you didn’t have to deal with that extra layer of awfulness.

As for why it’s easier to talk to me about this stuff- maybe it's because I’m so grammatically coherent and ‘brilliant’ and cute. Your words, not mine. Although I do believe them to be true.

Lately, I’ve been experimenting with fungi instead of rotting skin cells, simply because they are easier to come by than body parts without answering a million questions from people who think I care about their opinions. I don't. And if words comes around that I'm desiccating another body, my brother will confiscate my lab material.

About your opinion, though? Maybe. If it is the same as mine and I can use it to make a point. Otherwise, you are wrong and the last word will be mine.

-W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 9 at 4:52 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: The Coming Out Thing**

W,

Just so you know, your being cute isn’t the reason you’re easy to talk to, because it should really be the opposite. In real life, I go totally silent (or become a stuttering and blushing mess) around cute guys. My brain just freezes and shuts off. I can’t help it.

But I do know the reason you were asking because you wanted to ‘hear’ me call you cute again, so I will. 

You are cute, W. (He said with a deep, sexy voice).

Anyway, thank you for ‘listening’ to me rent endlessly. Thanks for everything, actually. It was such a strange, surreal weekend, but talking to you about it made it (as it always does) so much better.

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 10 at 7:11 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: The Coming Out Thing**

H,

So, who are all these ‘cute’ guys who make you so nervous? They can’t be that cute. Should I be envious? You better not supply THEM with praise after THEIR experiment on dead skin and fungi. I mean it.

Keep me posted about all forthcoming conversations with your mother, alright? Just so I can study human behaviour and not keep tabs on your well being at all. I mean that, too.

-W

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind feedback! if you want, you can search my name (lola_hyuga) on Goodreads and rate this fanfic. I'd really appreciate it, even if it's a bad review.  
> -CGM


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Coming Out Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming so far!  
> -CGM

Sherlock guessed having a steady routine pleased Irene. Studying biology at Angelo’s. She didn’t have her car that night, so she went home with him after school on Friday and brought her overnight bag. She invited herself and he guessed Redbeard would like the attention and it would create a good illusion of friendship in case Mrs Hudson decided to snoop around. As usual.

Needless to say he was uncomfortable the whole time they were there, even when Anderson had the decency to arrive ten minutes late.

And the poor excuse for a studying session dragged on for longer than clearly needed. He fought the urge to stab himself as entertainment all through it.

Once Irene and him were inside Sherlock’s car, on their way to his house, he believed, for a split second, that there would be quiet Finally. He was wrong, though. She chose to break the perfect silence with questions about the way Andeson behaved, or any details Sherlock would be able to deduce, in general.

He didn’t answer her and drove faster than needed or allowed by law. If they got in trouble, Mycroft would someone around and clear his name. As always.

He made a left and, as the car had warmed up, and the street was almost empty, He wished he could open her door so she’d fly right out and leave him alone. Facades just seemed to matter too much for that. As did appearances, unfortunately. Or maybe he had become too close to Irene to discredit her easy, clean murder.

H might have been coming out to his mother at that precise moment. Maybe not. But he did say he’d try it sometime around that night. They were having dinner at home, and he was going to make sure his mother didn’t have too much wine to forget it; nor too little as to react badly. He really could read human behaviour the way Sherlock could read a person’s life from their eyes alone. Sentiment: he understood it. Sherlock’s only blind spot, Still.

He couldn’t decide whether he was nervous for H, or jealous. He enjoyed being the sole keeper of his secret. Soon, that would be over.

“Irene?”

She looked at him and nodded for him to continue. She seemed to be able to read his moods. even if she chose to ignore them. The sound of her breathing faded away as he concentrated on H. His words. What he’d say Sherlock should do. They stop in front of his house. The windows were slightly ajar, although all the lights were off. Mrs Hudson was ‘discretely’ keeping an ear on when he got home. 

His heart was not beating abnormally fast. His hands were not sweating; nor shaking. Sherlock just wanted to test an hypothesis.

He couldn’t really be sure whether or not others knew about it. All he could do was use the data that was handed to him. He hadn’t planned to do things then. He hadn’t planned on doing anything at all, of the sort. 

She waited. He realised telling someone not close to oneself was, sometimes, easier.

“I’m gay.” Simple. Not personal, nor formal. Simple.

It was actually the first time that exact phrase had left his mouth. It was not a big deal. There was just no reason to talk about it before. Before him. before H.

There was a pause. Apart from that, she didn’t even seem surprised. No other reaction to transmit data.

He turned the car off. It would grow cold, soon. Pressure for her reactions to unfurl faster.

She was not surprised at all, it turns out. But she hadn’t known. She just thought it made sense. She thought it fit his personality.

Did he want her to be surprised? No, not at all, he guessed. Was that relief he felt? Maybe.

He wondered how it was going for H. He wondered if he had pre-anxiety attack symptoms. Sherlock should have been there to sooth him with the melody he composed for H. He was probably so nauseated he could hardly choke the words out. 

His H.

He almost believed he’d done that for him. Maybe he had.

Whatever happened after that sherlock must've either erased or been so lost in his head that it did not register. The next thing he remembered was him tucked in his bed and Irene’s breathing coming from the floor beside his bed. 

xxxxxx

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 13 at 12:09 AM**

**SUBJECT: out and about**

W, I did it. I told her. I almost can’t believe it. I’m still feeling so wild and jittery and not myself. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.

She took it well, I think. There was no Jesus involved at all. She was pretty calm about the whole thing. Sometimes I forget she can be rational and analytical, when she is not drunk. She seemed mostly concerned that I understand the importance of Practicing Safe Sex Every Time. Including Oral.

No, I’m not kidding. She didn’t seem to believe me when I told her I’m not sexually active. A virgin, technically. So, I guess that’s flattering. Though, it would be more flattering were it true. :)))

Anyway, I want to thank you. I didn’t tell you this before, W, but you should really know that you’re the reason I was able to do this. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find the courage. It’s really kind of incredible. I feel like there’s a wall coming down, and I don’t know why, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. I just know you’re the reason for it. So, thanks for that.

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 13 at 11:54 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: out and about**

H,

I am, indeed, proud of you. I would break one of my most important rules about physical contact with others and I would hug you, if I could.

I am, too, very impressed with your parents’ dedication and investment towards your sex life; what with your mother being Ms. Every Time Including Oral and your father being Mr. Let’s Read About Casanova.

(I researched him and… there's not much I can say...)

One’s parents do need to be so- and I apologize for the word- awkward. I will say, though, you should not even be thinking about having sexual intercourse unless it’s with someone trustworthy and, preferably, formidable. Someone who is such a ‘brilliant’ genius they are able to sneak organs from the morgue and study them with awe-inspiring accuracy. Someone who has a skull for a friend. Yes.

I actually had a ‘Coming Out Moment’ of my own, yesterday night. Not someone as important as a parent or sibling. Just an acquaintance who is almost a friend. Just a subject to a social experiment. I didn’t even plan to do it. It was uncomfortable and felt unnecessary.

Nonetheless, I'm glad I did it.

But all of this nonsense about your walls coming down because of me? I think you are giving me way too much credit. I actually believe it happened the other way around. you make me human, figuratively speaking.

-W

P.S. your use of a smiley face with more than one mouth is irrational and exaggerated. :))

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 14 at 12:12 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: out and about**

W,

I don’t really know what to say. I’m so proud of you. This is really momentous, isn’t it? I’m guessing this is one of those kinds of things we'll remember for the rest of our lives. It’s this feeling where you know you can’t go back, but have to finally be yourself. Terrifying, no? It’s easier than I thought it would be, but at the same time, it’s so much fucking harder. Just 'coming out of the closet' my ass.

Don’t worry, W. I only ever think about sex with people who eat chocolate while studying bacteria capable of whipping the human race off the Earth. People who love the violin and planning the murders of their loved ones. People who are mad geniuses that are very cute, too.

I guess I have a very specific type.

(I am not kidding.)

-H

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited! After this it seems to unravel so fast and in such a lovely way! I wish you like it, because not a lot of things brings me as much joy as writing this and reading your kind reviews!  
> Thank you,  
> -CGM  
> P.S. You can find this story on Goodreads if you search my name (lola_hyuga) and you can leave a review. Just saying :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is a little bitch and we know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!  
> -CGM

Sherlock had to meet him.

He didn’t think I would be able to keep everything up. He almost didn’t care if it ruined everything. He was that close to snogging his laptop screen.

H H H H H H H H H H H H!

He felt as if he were about to combust.

He spent the entire day with his stomach in knots and his eyes on the floor (avoiding looking at people was the only thing keeping Sherlock from deducing H’s identity right there and then) and it was completely pointless, because his frustration was not attached to anything real. At least, not physical.

Because, really, it was just words on a screen. Sherlock didn’t even know his bloody name (he could, he chose not to, he wanted to be trustworthy to H).

The feeling was a mixture of chemicals Sherlock was familiar with by now, in a laboratory way: dopamine; norepinephrine; oxytocin; serotonin; vasopressin. Love. Getting familiar with it in a personal way, however, was just unfortunate.

All through class he stared at his own shoes. Sherlock could identify every stain he got: Where and when he got it; how fast he was walking as he got them. He needed to focus. Anything. Something. Everytime he passed someone reading, he caught himself trying to decipher the letters. Because maybe the book was by Casanova, and he would know it was H instantly.

How did a person look when their walls were falling down?

A lot of people were having trouble focusing that day, because everyone was obsessed with the person who snuck into the chem lab and made a window explode and the windows filled with a filthy brown liquid. Sherlock. He did that. No one would find out. The teachers suspected, they always did. But he erased all possible evidence. And he guessed the teachers were tired of hearing about it, because they were all let out of class early.

Which meant it was still light out when he pulled into the driveway of his house. Redbeard jumped with joy when he saw Sherlock. Mrs Hudson must have been out doing the grocery shopping.

He felt restless. He didn’t like it. He didn’t need food, nor water. He couldn’t just sit around. He decided to go to Lestrade’s with Redbeard and clear his head and mind a bit. He texted him, knowing he was already there with Mike (maybe Molly, too). Sherlock needed his head to stop. He locked Redbeard onto his leash and locked the door behind them.

Molly arrived as they did. The dumb dog broke away from him to jump up against her, whoring himself out for cuddles.

She called him ‘sweet one’ and ‘reddy teddy’. Dull.

Lestrade shut off the telly when they entered. They discussed the video game briefly and Sherlock ignored them.

He laid on the carpet next to Redbeard, who looked absurd, on his back, with his lip flapped up over his gums.

Their conversation shifted to something sort of incoherent about time travel with medical professionals and a blue box. They were totally absorbed in the philosophy of time travel. So he let his eyes slide closed. And he thought about H. And he thought about nothing at all besides H. Or at least he tried.

The feeling was debilitating. Sherlock, lying on a carpet and all he wished for in the entire world was for H’s next email to arrive. The morons around him had no clue. They couldn’t OBSERVE.

He didn’t know if it was expected of him to do that. He didn’t know if he could, if he needed to, how to do it, even. Ever since he told Irene, he believed it would be easier to tell everyone else. After his lips learned how to shape the words. They wouldn’t recognize Sherlock, if he randomly told them. He wouldn’t, too.

His phone buzzed and he knew it was Anderson:  _ hey, maybe another date at Angelo’s soon? _

Sherlock ignored it.

He was not asking. He was bordering on a threat to force SHerlock into agreeing.

He hated feeling so distant from reason. His rationality.

His phone kept vibrating with similar messages and he got tired far too quickly. When he left, and got to his room, inside his bed, he hated that sleep overcame him with a touch of relief. H. That was his last thought.

xxxxxx

Sherlock spent the first Saturday of Christmas break at school. He was forced to do extracurriculars, because Mycroft spoke to the school after he refused to humiliate himself by attending the PE classes.

At the moment, he was sitting next to Irene, who had been caught sneaking out of school, and they both pretty much ignored what the teacher was saying. Sherlock was there as a sort of ‘assistant’ for the students who needed guidance with school work. It was completely and uterly tedious how stupid those moronic idiots were. Irene understood the subjects well enough, so he stuck with her and pretended to ‘help’ so neither of them had to do anything.

He knew his head was far away and was not completely aware of his surroundings. The deductions came and went and words floated around Sherlock’s head and he had no idea why. Brown; fading; small; torn; brick; hair. It was random. But weirdly deliberate.

Double helixes were interesting. Deoxyribonucleic acid. He decided he’d focus on that. Try, at least: Fail.

Everytime he pushed one thought down, another one nudged its way to the surface.

  1. H who was careful and proofread every email he sent. H who had no clue. H who gave no clues; yet said everything. H who was so guarded. H who thought about sex. Who flirted. Wo thought about sex. With Sherlock. Thought about sex with him.



Anderson walked through the door. Late. Clothes flamboyant enough to catch everyone’s attention. Goal accomplished.

Irene grinned at that. He smiled back at her. Disgusting display. Just a show.

He punched Sherlock’s arm lightly as if they were friends. Wrong. Sherlock hated him. He loathed him, in fact. He wanted Anderson gone. ‘Freak’ being said in his voice still echoed in Sherlock’s skull. Over and over again.

Sherlock tried to refocus. Hexagon shapes. Those were good. Reminded him of anthophila. Good.

At some point, he felt the hair at the back of his neck stand up as someone came too close for his liking. It was just Irene, whispering in his ear. “Someone is looking.” Her smile belonged to the devil.

Sherlock looked up and realized there actually were two people looking at them. Wasn’t it rude to stare? Maybe only when one could analyse. Observe.

The first, who Irene was clearly referring to, was Victor. Victor Trevor. Not H. Not important.

The second was Anderson. And he looked pretty goddamn furious when he saw Irene’s lips near Sherlock’s ear. His eyes narrowed and he knew something was going to go wrong. Anderson looked pissed for the whole duration of the day. Sherlock ignored him and everyone.

xxxxxx

“Holmes. We need to talk.” Sherlock was pulled into a stairwell.

He rolled his eyes. Inconvenient. He leaned against the railing and looked down at Anderson. The stairwell was dark, but Sherlock’s eyes were pretty well-adjusted, and he could see the tension in Anderson’s jaw. He stopped and waited until the others were too far down the hall to overhear.

“So, I guess you think this is hilarious,” he said under his breath. Unnecessary. Idiot. He didn’t elaborate. Sherlock had no idea what he was talking about. He exhaled loudly when he realised Sherlock wouldn’t speak until he explained his actions. “You’re trying to humiliate me. I get it, you weren’t a hundred percent on board with our arrangement-”

Hilarious.

“Our arrangement? You mean you blackmailing me? Yeah, I’m not on board with being blackmailed, if that’s what you are implying.”

“You think I’m fucking blackmailing you?”

What the hell would the moron call it? It was funny, Sherlock was not really pissed off at him. He was pissed at himself.

“Look, it’s over. The Irene thing is done. She rejected me. So you can forget about the whole bloody thing.”

And he just left. Great. He clearly considered himself a victim. He thought of himself as a ‘good guy’ who went to the ‘friend zone’. Wrong.

He didn’t even look around at Sherlock when he shouted a displeased “Merry Christmas” over his shoulder.

xxxxxx

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 20 at 1:45 PM**

**SUBJECT: Oh bloody hell**

W,

You’re not going to believe this.

My father phoned me and there was this excruciating moment of small talk and then my mother shouted from the kitchen “tell him”. The whole thing was just so weird. Anyway, I was really nervous,

So I just told him. Just a simple “dad, I’m gay”. He said he’d call me later and I was really, really not expecting that. Now it’s just my sister and my friends left.

So, yeah. If anyone can find some twisted way to make me feel better, it’s you. Please. Or just distract me with the details of some murder. You’re good at that, too.

-Love, 

H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 20 at 6:16 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Oh bloody hell**

H,

I am not sure of what protocol to proceed with and, as the internet suggests, I could hug you as a form of comfort. However, we know the circumstances… so: Congratulations? I can’t read your feelings, but it seems like you’re not thrilled. I guess I wouldn’t be either, were I in your situation.

I’m trying to find a humorous story to tell you.

The best I came up with was that time I was so lost in thought, reading my teacher so she’d let me leave earlier for an experiment and my so called ‘friends’ tied my shoes’ shoelaces together and I fell on my face.

Did that help? Anyhow, I tried.

As a side note, I hid dead insects in some of their foods during lunch just to see how long it would take them to notice (they didn’t) so revenge was satisfactory.

Hope this makes you feel better.

-Devotion,

W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 21 at 9:37 AM**

**SUBJECT: Revenge**

W,

First of all, just so you know, your email helped a lot. But everything’s still such a train-wreck. I think I see the humour. Still, now that I’ve gotten some sleep (from the cutest person I know :)), I feel much better. I just feel talking about it with you makes everything better.

Thank you for sharing those hilarious stories with me. Now I’m afraid to ever do anything to get on your bad side. And from now on I’ll check my food every time, before consuming it. I can’t believe they didn’t notice it! You're the best!

:)

-Love, 

H

P.S. By the way, guess what I’m eating at this very moment.

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 21 at 10:11 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Revenge**

H,

Glad I could help. 

You have me curious, though. A banana? A sandwich? A cucumber? Anything that suggests fellatio?

-Fondness,

W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 21 at 10:24 AM**

**SUBJECT: Food**

W, 

Take your mind out of the gutter!

More like a giant baguette.

:)

No, really. It’s chocolate. In your honor.

-Love,

H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 21 at 10:30 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Food**

H,

I appreciate that you’re risking your health by eating chocolate in the morning just to honour me. And I love your giant baguette. 

So, here’s the thing. I’ve been thinking and deleting every thought from my mind. I do not know how to phrase it in any other way: I want to know who you are without deducing it. I think we should meet in person. Just a suggestion. Now it's up to you.

-Emotion,

W

xxxxxx

\-------------------------

fanart:

<https://ibb.co/C7cwbq7>

<https://ibb.co/3pgzMvt>

(see the bottom notes for credit and if you want me to feature your own fanfiction, I'll do so gladly)!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is getting exciting!!
> 
> Also, the Fanfiction was all made by satan.s_tities on tiktok if you want to check them out, whom I thank very much for their wonderful work and support!  
> If you have any that would apply here, I’ll gladly share it!  
> And don't forget to leave a review on Goodreads ( you can find this work if you search my name, lola_hyuga)  
> -CGM


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson can be even a bigger bitch!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support! :)  
> -CGM

It was Christmas Eve day and it was terrible. Mycroft arranged it so Sherlock would have to eat with him and Mrs Hudson in the dining room. He sat at one head, Sherlock sat at the opposite one, Mrs Hudson at an equidistant spot between the both of them.

They argue, but Sherlock’s losing his edge and his words don’t have as much intent to offend his brother’s appearance as always. But all he can think about is how H had been signing emails lately using the word ‘love’.

He wished he could shout his hatred for Mycroft and go upstairs, to his room. A distant fortress. 

Redbeard, who was lying by his legs, raised his head and a phone bused. Lestrade had sent Sherlock a text:  _ Molly, Mike and I R outside. _

Dull. But still a distraction. An intriguing one. They never went there. Thought of it as ‘too cold’ and with a ‘haunted vibe’. Sherlock left his chair and made his way to the door, ignoring Mrs Hudnon’s protests and his brother’s scoff.

He swung the door open and they had weird expressions pasted to their faces. They invited him for a walk and he had a sense that it was a trap. He was trapped. He just didn’t know why. They clearly were not together, so it was not that type of conversation. So what could it be? They didn’t appear to be mad or frustrated. They don’t have any intentions of asking him any favours. The conclusion was too random: they wanted to see how he was. 

Clearly something better than a meal with Mycroft, that was for sure.

As predicted: They questioned how ‘things’ were going. Odd. Not the question they really wanted to ask. They then inquired whether or not Sherlock ‘needed to talk’ and tried to assure him that they would ‘always be there’. unnecessary. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Untrue. They would only be alive, considering the average expectancies, for another sixty to seventy years. Always is an unfortunate word.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at them and insisted that they get to the point.

They sighed. Like they'd practiced it. They had. Nervousness. Doubt. They didn’t want to have to do this. They had bad news.

“We need to show you something,” Molly said, as Lestrade just looked everywhere but at them. Mike just kicked something on the ground. She took her phone from her front pocket, she was intending to use it or she’d have stored it in her back one, There was a social media page open and he must’ve erased the colour scheme related to each one from his brain, because it honestly did not matter.

Sherlock grabbed the device and scrolled down. He paused. No.

“You okay?” One of them asked, he could not distinguish their voices at the moment. “We’re sorry, Sherlock. We thought you’d want to gather your ‘data’. We assumed you didn’t write it.”

_ December 24, 10:15 AM _

_ SHERLOCK HOLMES’S OPEN INVITATION TO ALL DUDES _

_ Dear all dudes of London, _

_ With this missive, I hereby declare that I am supermely gay and open for business. Interested parties may contact me directly to discuss arrangements for anal buttsex. Or blow-jobs. ladies need not apply. That is all. _

“We all reported it,” they assured him. “They’ll take it down.”

But people had already seen it. And even if he didn’t care what they said, H might have seen it. He would know.

“Anderson did it.” Sherlock answered their unspoken question. “He clearly does not realise that ‘anal buttsex’ is rather redundant.”

Sherlock guessed he should have been relieved at the lack of references to H or the screenshots. He was not.

He returned Molly’s phone to her. They all stared at the unaware dog yapping happily.

“I am gay.” he confirmed. “It’s not a lie.” There was no need to hide it anymore, was there? No. There was nothing he could do but wait. He wouldn’t deny it. he wasn’t ashamed of it. He was just not ready for H to find out. He surely would. Sherlock’s name was not that common. Obviously.

His phone buzzed and he took it out. Expecting offers or some ridicule. It was Irene.

_ Sherlock, open the link I sent you. _

_ I told no one. I swear. _

_ Are you alright? Want me to kick some arse? _

_ Call if you need. _

They stayed silent and, before they had time to ruin anything else, he turned around and went home. To his room. To his bed. He let Redbeard climb with him and just closed his eyes against the noise of the world: hateful, mad world.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 25 at 5:12 PM**

**SUBJECT: Holly nightmare**

H,

I officially had an awful Christmas. Most of it I can’t even tell you about. Which is the worst part.

To sum up, due to certain mysterious circumstances, I am now out to all of my friends and family (my brother is practically Wikipedia, anyway, so I expect he already knew). Probably the whole world, too. I guess that’s all I am allowed to say.

So, it’s your turn to distract me, alright? Give me updates about serial killers and murderous thoughts in your head. Or talk about how you think I am 'cute'. And tell me about the fact that you ate too much chocolate and now feel nauseated. 

I know you’re probably ‘hanging’ with your family and won’t answer right away. I don’t think my heart will survive if you take too long, though.

You should give me your number so I can text you. I promise to not step over the line.

Well, Merry Christmas, H. I mean it. And I hope people leave you alone tonight, because family time (at least in my family) is appalling. Maybe next year we can sneak away and spend Christmas together somewhere far away, where my brother and your family can’t find us.

-Cherishing,

W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO:w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 25 at 8:41 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Holly nightmare**

Oh, W, I am so, so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what mysterious circumstances led to your being outed to the universe, but it does not sound pleasant. And I know that’s not what you wanted. I wish I could be a real super hero just this once and fix it for you, somehow.

No updates on any serial killer, but I did have the urge to murder my sister, after she broke the mug I got for Christmas. I didn't plan it like you would, you brilliant mastermind. But I’d appreciate it if you helped me hide the body.

I do think you’re cute. You’re absurdly cute. I think I spend a little too much time thinking how adorable you are in emails and trying to translate that into a viable mental image for daydreams and the like.

But the texting thing. Ooooh- I don’t know. Really, though, you don’t have to worry about me not answering. You won’t even notice, because I’ll answer right away (inside reason).

-Love, 

H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 26 at 1:12 PM**

**SUBJECT: Daydreams… and the like.**

Specifically “and the like”. Please elaborate.

-Sentiment,

W

P.S. Seriously. AND THE LIKE?

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO:w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Dec 26 at 10:42 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: Daydreams… and the like.**

And… I think I’ll shut up now :)))))

-Love,

H

xxxxxx

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO:w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 1 at 1:19 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: New Year**

W,

Poor zombie. Hope you can get some sleep. Not that you sleep that much, am I right? The good news is that there's still four days left of vacation, which you should spend devoted exclusively to sleeping and writing to me.

I missed you last night. It was good, but boring and a lot of grandma kisses.

Any plans until school starts again?

-Love,

H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 1 at 5:31 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: New Year**

Zombie is an understatement. I finished every interesting experiment possible and now I’m beyond bored. I just want to shoot someone to pass the time. Is that too much to ask?

Nothing much is going to happen this weekend, other than reminding myself of you by absolutely no reason at all. I look around and all I see is you. Everywhere.

I would send you a photo of the ‘H’ I carved on my desk with a knife, but you’re opposed to our number exchange and I don't feel like attaching an image to this email just as a protest. :(

-Infatuation,

W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO:w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 2 at 10:13 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: New Year**

Well, I wish I could see that. But about the texting thing- all I can say is that I’m really sorry. The idea of exchanging phone numbers just terrifies me. It does. Just the idea that you could call me and hear my voicemail message and KNOW. I don’t know what to say, W. I’m just not ready for you to know who I am. I know it’s stupid and even moronically dumb. And, honestly, at this point, I spend about half my waking hours imagining us meeting in person for the first time. But I can’t think of a way for that to happen without everything changing. I think I’m scared to lose you.

Does that make sense? (you’re the genius) Don’t hate me.

-Love,

H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.comh78**

**TO:@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 2 at 12:25 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: New Year**

H,

I guess I’m trying to understand where you’re coming from with the texting subject. I thought we based this on trust. But I cannot blame you. I am, in fact, extremely nosy. But I would never call you if that were to make you uncomfortable. I do not mean this to be a big deal. And I do not wish for the emails to stop. I just want to text you because texting is considered casual and it would be as if we 'hang out' often.

And YES I do want to meet you in person. And obviously that would change things- but maybe in a good manner. A positive manner. So maybe it is a big deal. I can’t be certain. I am not familiar with your friends’ names or what you do after school and everything that you haven’t been telling me. But I want to know. I'm not familiar with the concept of not knowing. Oblivion does not agree with me.

I want to know what your voice sounds like. I want to memorize the structure of your skull. Want to learn the rhythm your body develops: want to know the growth of your hairs; the smell of your body before and after school; the feel of your heart beats when you're awake and when you're asleep. I want to know you...

But I won’t until you’re ready. And I can never hate you. Not even for hiding from me. You won’t lose me, as long as I don’t lose you, either. And as long as you are not annoyed by me. Trust me, most people get tired after the first minutes.

Just think about it, alright?

-Attachment,

W

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've been enjoying it so far. I've been posting a new chapter almost every day, so I think this will be done before the second week of February (hopefully). Thank you for reading and I hope you stick around for the rest!!!  
> -CGM


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aren't people just cruel, sometimes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support! In my biased opinion it's going extremely well and moving forward in a very pleasing fashion!  
> -CGM

It was the first day back at school, and Sherlock honestly considered spending the entire day in the parking lot. Or not showing up at all. He couldn’t explain it. It was fine. He was not ashamed. His sexuality was simply chemical. Everyone’s was. But now that he was there, he couldn’t seem to get out of the car. 

At least now there were more words to call him beside ‘freak’ and they started with an ‘f’ as well. No need for originality or anything.

He ended up walking in and trying to lean down and blend with the people in the crowd pushing their way to class.

Sherlock stopped at his locker and everything seemed normal. Just the usual sociopath in the ocean of morons.

No one had slid any homophobic notes into the slats of his locker. Good. He pulled out his books that he would not use at all. The word ‘fag’ was not written anywhere near his ray of vision. Good, too.

He almost believed the worst part of his day would be looking at Philip Anderson’s idiotic face. And he was in Sherlock’s first class. There was a pulse of something close to dread, but it was even closer to hatred. If he breathed maybe he wouldn’t murder Anderson just yet.

As he was walking to the Language and arts wing, this Rugby guy he hardly recognized almost ran directly into him. Sherlock stepped back and read him instantly. Everyone around them was already whispering and staring with anticipation. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and greeted him, then leaned in.

He grabbed both of Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock was a head taller than him. He stopped at about five centimeters from his face and smirked. 

He was about to open his mouth and spit a slur in the genius’s face. He was going to joke, saying it was someone else’s turn with the ‘faggy whore’.

People were already laughing.

Enough.

Sherlock grabbed the guy’s arm and, in a moment full of adrenaline and surprise on his part, shoved him into the nearest wall as he struggled against Sherlock’s grasp on his arm that was about to snap, behind his back. He grunted and Sherlock knew his face was being bruised by the unclean wall he ended up pressed against.

Sherlock yanked his body away from him and cleaned invisible lint from his precious jacket.

He didn’t give the silence or gasps a second thought and moved to class.

In English, Anderson would not even look in Sherlock’s direction.

But, aside from that, Sherlock’s previous demonstration seemed to keep everyone away during the entirety of the morning. Which was good. People did try to reassure him that ‘Jesus’ still loves him, or that it was okay and he was not ‘alone’, though. He ignored them all.

During lunch, instead of eating, Sherlock settled for doing something that calmed him: He looked for people’s deepest secrets as leverage.

Still, after everyone knew his, he did not find it as amusing.

Suddenly and very much unfortunately, the whole cantine seemed to shift. Everyone was silent. Looking at something. Sherlock turned.

He heard Irene’s “You’re fucking kidding me.” before it dawned on him.

There was a pair of random guys- one of them had cheated on his girlfriend and the other lied to his parents about his parking tickets and his grades- in front of the doors. Sherlock didn’t know them. They, however, seemed to think that they knew him well enough to pull what they were about to pull.

One of them was wearing what Sherlock assumed was supposed to be an imitation of his usual attire and the other had a skirt over his jeans. They were both holding posters.

The signs had graphic sketches of what one could assume was Sherlock in a rather compromising position. With the words ‘anal butt sex’ written in there. They pretended to grind and people started laughing. Some were telling them to cease it, but to no avail.

Then, suddenly, Mary, of all people, ran down and threw a right hook at one of the guys’ noses and the crack could be heard from their table. The blood dripped to the floor and Sherlock felt the smirk rising in the corner of his lips.

He rose from his chair. Two minutes and thirty seven seconds until the teachers entered the cafeteria and stopped him.

Sherlock’s mouth moved without his permission. Without him giving it any thought. He just let it. It was too fast to stop.

“I would say I’m flattered you think I’m worthy of such a show, and I appreciate your preoccupation toward my well being and availability. I will let you both know, however, that you just pressed your self destruction button by messing with me and any other queer adolescent watching you little… show. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” Sherlock walked toward them as threateningly as possible, imitating Mycroft slightly, and decided to give the whole school a show of his own.

“You, in the skirt. You have scratch marks raising from under your shirt, in your back, good shag last night. Interestingly enough, the scratches on the left side of your body are not as prominent as the ones on the right side. A right handed person did it, then. But your girlfriend, who was laughing just a few seconds ago and now realised you two did not sleep together last night, is left handed; which means you cheated on her with..” He looked around, and pointed. “Oh, the brunette beside her. Who just so happens to be her best friend, judging by the flamboyant jewelry. Yes. Such a shame. Also, by the way, you adjusted your pants just before you made fun of me, you and her should go get checked out. Just keep it in mind. UTIs are always troublesome.

“From the yellow coloration on the side of your index finger suggests the frequent smoking of cigarettes. Unfortunately for you, I can also smell the exaggeration on your deodorant and mint toothpaste to hide the tabaque smoke; therefore, it is clear you do not wish for, probably, your parents to know. And it would be a shame if they did, no?.”

He smiled at the stupid student and he took a step back, mouth agape. Afraid. Good. Sherlock turned to his associate.

“Now… let’s read Mr Butterfly Tattoo, shall we? No? You have exactly seventeen seconds to leave my sight before I continue this until you’ll be so utterly humiliated you will never, ever be able to look people in the eye ever again.” He nodded his head toward the exit and they ran like their lives depended on it. Socially, they did.

Sherlock turned to the gaping crowd.

“If I ever hear ANYONE in this school insulting someone else for something as petty as this, you can be sure I will go after you and end your life. Remember: I can deduce your phone’s password from the sole of your shoes and your address by the state of your clothes. Now go back to your dull lives.”

He sat down and the silence stretched itself. At his table, people avoided his eyes- some were smiling to themselves- and he had to reassure them that everything was fine. It was. He could handle it.

Molly was the first to react and it was the first time he ever heard her cuss.

xxxxxx

After school, they convinced Sherlock to watch the rugby practice with them. They offered him blood samples in return. All was good and back to normal. Almost, anyway. As good as it could be.

It was freezing cold and he did not comprehend how the team carried on like that.The cheerleaders, too. All the guys were wearing long sleeved spandex shirts under their rugby uniform, and a few had shin guards. They all had muscled arms and calves. It was a pleasant view.

The coach blew his whistle and all the guys gathered around him for a minute as he talked. And then they dispersed, passing round bottles of water and towels.. They cleaned their sweaty foreheads and stretched their limbs. Lestrade came over to the group immediately after he was finished. Grinning, pink faced. Sebastian and John followed him over.

They conversed about some upcoming tryouts.

Then Lestrade joked with Molly, who blushed, about them enjoying to ogle the players.

Sherlock ignored them and looked at the other two. He ate lunch with them almost five days a week. They never really ‘hung out’, per say. They barely spoke. He had never tried to befriend them. He’d never tried to befriend anyone beside H. They were nice enough, one would say. He avoided reading people who he didn’t have an interest in. Though they didn’t mention the gay thing once, and he was, indeed, grateful for that. They weren’t just stereotypical jocks.

Also, John Watson was cute. Like seriously so. He stood a meter or so from the fence, totally sweaty., a horrid wool shirt in hand. His blue eyes were close to tempting. He smiled discreetly at Sherlock.

Then a cold feeling ran through him and he recognized it as guilt. Because of H. Even though he was still not ready. Even though he was just words on a laptop screen.

Sherlock sometimes considered H his significant other. A boyfriend of sorts. He didn’t even know.

So maybe it was the winter air or the rugby calves, but his day was not as unpleasant as he expected it to be. His mood was not an altered one and the walk to his car was not rushed.

Until he saw Philip Anderson waiting for him beside it.

“Where have you been?” he asked. As if Sherlock owed him any explanation.

Sherlock waited for him to move. Gave him a nasty look, just for encouragement. He would like to never lay eyes on Anderson ever again. Sherlock wanted him gone.

“Can we talk for a second?” Anderson tried.

Sherlock kept silent until he moved away from the car and stood there waiting for him to move.

“I seriously owe you an apology.” he regretted it out of fear, humiliation, his brother had found out what about he did, clearly. He felt ashamed for provoking those jokes. He deleted the screenshots. Sherlock was above him. Had the upper hand. He made a decision that wasn’t his to make. But Sherlock did not care anymore.

His eyes swelled and redden with tears. He was trying and failing to stop the tears from falling.

He realised he would never extract another word from Sherlock. He nodded and stepped away, walking toward his own car.

Sherlock drove home too fast. faster than usual. He didn’t care.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO: h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 5 at 7:19 PM**

**SUBJECT: my day...**

H,

Do you ever get so angry you stab your wall? And then feel guilty you got angry and let people mess with you and your emotions and then stab your desk? Tell me I’m not weird. I don't like any variation or synonym of that word.

I don’t even know what to tell you other than the fact that being out to the universe is completely exhausting.

-Adulation,

W

**FROM** **: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 5 at 10:01 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: my day…**

I don’t think you’re weird. It sounds like you just had a very shitty day, and I wish there was a way for me to make it better. Have you tried eating your feelings? I hear chocolate can be therapeutic. Also, I’m not really one to talk here, but you seriously shouldn’t feel guilty for getting angry- especially if I am right about what is making you angry.

Alright, I have to tell you something, and I think it may be something upsetting. I actually don’t think my timing could be worse, but I can’t think of any way around it, so here goes:

W, even though I'm no genius detective, I am almost positive I know who you are.

-Love,

H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 6 at 7:12 PM**

**SUBJECT: really?**

Alright. Not upsetting. It is, however, a big moment.

I refrain from reading too much into people so I don’t break your privacy policy. If you’d authorize it, though, I’d figure it out in an instant. Literally.

-Appreciation, 

W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 6 at 9:43 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

I’m glad to know you are 100% trust worthy :)

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 6 at 11:18 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

You know, maybe you guessed wrong about me. Though I’m guessing it was rather obvious. And the whole internet post.

-Amity,

W

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 7 at 7:23 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

I don’t know what internet post you’re referring to. My phone is rather old and I haven’t got the best social life online, except for my attempts at writing.

What was on there?

Anyway, I really don’t think I’m wrong.

I finally got the fair hair reference. Although you have really darks curls, don’t you?

-Love,

H

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you or reading! If you are enjoying and one kudo isn't enough, you can always leave a comment here or a full review on Goodreads (to find this work you just have to search my name lola_hyuga)  
> Thank you, again!!  
> -CGM


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst? Just... some drunken moments, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so... here's the thing: I changed the original story to fit the characters and ships, but even if I'm proud about the other chapters, I need your approval of this one, because it was a big leap and a lot of changes. Seriously, this one was challenging and I hope you enjoy!  
> -CGM

So, yeah, Sherlock had been careless. Underestimated people. Left a trail of clues, he shouldn’t have been surprised that H put them together. Maybe he kind of wanted H to.

Sherlock meant ‘fair hair’ in French. Not as clever as he’d thought it, obviously.

He spent about twenty minutes staring at H’s email on his laptop that morning before writing back. And then he sat refreshing the browser over and over again until Redbear barked and yapped for Sherlock to take him on a walk. He ended up getting to school earlier, anyway. So he decided to spend a few minutes sitting in his parked car. Staring at his email again on his phone.

On the good side, if there was one, H hadn’t seen the post. That, at least, was something.

He walked in just as the bell was ringing. In a daze. His hands seem to know his routine. His brain was not present, or functioning in the least. Sherlock felt liquid. People spoke to him and he nodded along. Nothing penetrated. The fact that someone called him Shercock didn’t even phase him. SHerlock didn’t even think he cared.

All he could think about was H. He guessed a part of him was hoping for something that day. Some kind of reveal. He couldn’t believe H wouldn’t tell him his identity, now that he knew who W, Sherlock, was. Which meant he could be watching from anywhere. Be anyone. Well, not anyone. There were a few people he had already eliminated as suspects. Lestrade passed Sherlock a note and his heart felt tight. Maybe it was from H. Something saying he was ready. But it ended up just being a drawing of their teacher performing fellatio on a baguette. Speaking of things that reminded him of H.

He did make an effort to focus on whatever class he was attending. But after hearing Mary brag about a gap between her tights, he completely shut off.

It was only when he got home that he realised his birthday had passed in a while. He didn’t think he’d ever dreaded growing up so much. Alone.

xxxxxx

On Thursday, after one of the classes, Victor very casually and not subtle at all mentioned his sexuality. Bisexual, to be precise. And that he’d enjoy hanging out with Sherlock sometime.

He was not H. So Sherlock rudely told him off. Considering everything, Sherlock didn’t think Victor would ever speak to him again.

Irene questioned it later. And Sherlock didn’t answer at all. He didn’t know how to explain to her that, for all intents and purposes, he was already taken.

By someone who liked chocolate, rugby, superheroes and Sherlock’s ‘cute’ face.

Someone who seemed to like him better before he knew who really was.

xxxxxx

It was not even dark outside, yet. His mind: hurt. It felt like his brain wanted to tear his skull open and crawl out just to crawl inside again. And repeat this process until he could take it no more. His body was betraying him: headache; heartache (just sentiment? No, also physical); his mouth felt dry; his eyes were unfocused and he couldn’t hear anything. Not that there was anything to listen to. He was alone, clutching his head in his hands, foetal position, on his bedroom floor, with Redbeard nested beside his legs as comfort.

He needed to stop thinking. He needed to forget. Needed everything to stop, to just be  _ quiet.  _ He needed a cigarette. But Mycroft had made Mrs Hudson get rid of those and he’d know if Sherlock used nicotine patches, again. They’d gotten ridden of those, too.

The conclusion was obvious: he needed a different source of distraction. He needed a drink!

He wouldn’t bother even opening the door to the wine cellar. No way. Mycroft would have to worry about Sherlock. Even if for just a second, wondering where he would be and what he would be up to.

He grabbed his phone, which had been discarded on the floor earlier, and texted anyone who didn’t seem like an enormous pain in the arse at that moment and they all (Mike, Lestrade and Molly) met in front of a place he knew fairly well.

He had to stop thinking about H, one way or the other.

“Is this a bar?” Molly asked. She was worried, she was only there because she wanted to make sure they didn’t get out of line and into too much trouble.

“Restaurant. I know the owner. Owes me a favor” They went in, following a waiter to an empty table.

Everything was overwhelming. The sounds, the lights, everything. It was a welcome distraction in Sherlock’s mind. Even if, deep down, he still felt like he had a constant screeching sound at the back of his brain. At that point, even injecting some morphine in his brain would be a better distraction than thinking about his life. Everything was going downhill.

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his jacket and took a graduated cylinder out, placing it on the table they’d been given. He’d accentuated with a red pen the preferable measure, in case he got too drunk. All three of them gave him a questioning look, but at that point they should’ve been more than used to it. He wouldn’t have cared if they’d called him ‘freak’ right then and there, as long as they had let him have his way.

“You can have whatever you want on the menu, I don’t care if it’s five hundred orders of pasta, under these conditions,” he said, listing them with his fingers, “my jerk of a brother is the one paying for everything, so when it’s time to pay, it goes to the open check on his name: Mycroft Holmes; and you take me home no earlier than a quarter past ten, unless I ask you to. Agreed?”

They all nodded. Good.

The plan was clear: He had calculated the precise quantities of alcohol to drink over a specific period of time, ensuring his mind wasn’t focused enough for it to hurt in the sharp way it was doing since the whole H incident, but not so much that he’d have the slightest difficulty concealing his hungover the following day.

And so he drank, while the others stared at his measuring techniques and as their orders got bolder with time. None of them drank anything alcoholic, but they did order spicy food that none would be able to finish.

First a beer, and some mix with tequila, then some food so he could consume some more beer and everything was going according to plan.

Until a group of older guys (in college, except for one who did not get in) appeared and joined their table and got too close to Sherlock for his taste. They passed him drinks he did not account for (he did not know the percentages of alcohol, nor the places of fabrication), but he drank them, nonetheless. They asked him if he was a student and were delighted to discover that he was younger than them and called him ‘handsome’ and someone touched his arm with intentions he did not share. Then there were shots and something that burned in an unpleasant way and Lestrade, Mike and Molly’s faces were blurred and he couldn’t hear anything beside laughter (was it his? no, too high pitched for that).

Someone kept giggling; there was someone on someone’s lap; there was an unwelcome arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, tightening.

Then, the world stopped spinning and he felt as if he sobered up. Someone’s lips had touched his cheek (wet and warm and NOT H) and he saw red. Just red. Rage. Anger. Drinking had not made him forget anything. On the contrary: all he could see when he closed his eyes, almost as if it were imprinted on his eyelids, was the letter ‘H’.

He raised his head and made every effort to focus on a familiar face, to no avail. 

“Greg?” he asked.

“Alright, boys, I think the party is over.” Sherlock recognized that voice: his friends. One of them. He couldn’t be arsed to identify which.

Two people slipped their shoulders under his arms (they were shorter than Sherlock, he recognized their smell and their average body temperature) and supported him all the way outside. A gentle hand touched his forehead and it was clearly Molly.

“Let’s get you home, Sherlock.”

And his subconscious recognized the way, but his body didn’t and he wanted to scream and yell, but staying quiet was so much easier when his head was travelling at three hundred kilometers per hour.

“Need my email. Read. Love, H,” he tried to tell them and make sense of it, but he doubted they got it. He didn’t understand himself, either.

Someone was whispering to him and attempting to unlock his phone. So easy, if he were sober. But he couldn’t even remember his own password in a state like that.

His head lulled to one side as he pressed his body against whoever was holding him up in the backseat of the car.

They arrived and knocked and Mrs Hudson came to the door. Her gasp made his ears hurt and he looked at her and it was too dark to see, but he knew what her distressed expression was: knew that she’d be frowning with her eyes wide open and a hand over her mouth.

He felt nauseated as they passed him over and he didn’t know if he had enough strength not to vomit on Mrs Hudson’s shoes, much less pull her down as he felt the urge to fall over.

“Thank you, sweeties,” she told them, as they waved and drove off, “you are so lucky, Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself?”

“‘m sorry,” he tried to apologize, but his words came out dragged and a sob was building in his chest as he rested his face on her shoulder and clutched her shirt.

“It’s okay, dear. You’re not alone. I’m here.” And he drifted off wondering if the feeling in his stomach was melancholy or the alcohol’s effects.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 9 at 8:23 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

H,

I get it, just because I was careless, it does not mean it’s fair to push you into revealing yourself before you are prepared. But now you know my identity and I do not know yours- That’s weird, isn’t it?

I don’t know what else I should say. Anonymity served a purpose for us, and I get that. But it seems useless, now that it's not mutual. I want to know you for real.

-Love,

SH

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 10 at 2:12 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

Well, I’m still me, just with a different name. But that is obviously miles away from the point, I know. I just do not know what else to say. I’m truly sorry, Sherlock.

Anyway, it looks like things are working out the way you wanted them to. I heard you were asked out and all. The two of you would be good together, I think. So, good for you.

-H

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 10 at 3:45 PM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

Working out for me? Working the way I wanted them to? What are you talking about?

???

Love,

-SH

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 12 at 12:18 AM**

**SUBJECT: Re: really?**

Seriously, I do not know what you are on about. Because nothing seems to be going the way I intended it to.

I get that you do not feel comfortable with texting. And you don’t want to meet in person. That is fine. Fine. Fine! But I hate that everything is different now, even in our emails.

I do understand if you do not find me attractive. I’ll get over it. Not your fault. But you are truly my best friend. I really want to keep you. Yes, I am that selfish.

Can we pretend none of this ever happened and go back to what it used to be? Please?

Love,

-Sherlock

  
  


xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We're almost reaching the end and I am loving this so much, you don't even know. And your comments are so kind and help me write so much better and you support me and it's perfect!  
> Thank you,  
> -CGM


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What everyone was waiting for! (when I say everyone, I mean me. I was waiting to post this!!!!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it. This chapter has a different structure from the previous ones, but I like it.  
> Hope you do, too.  
> -CGM

Which wasn’t to say Sherlock was going to stop thinking about it.

He stared up at the ceiling. H wasn’t going to tell him, which meant he should figure it out for himself. Except he couldn’t. He couldn’t break H’s trust.

Nonetheless, knowing or not knowing his name wouldn’t change the fact that H wasn’t interested. He found out who Sherlock was. And then everything was broken. Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He hoped he’d made it sound like he didn’t mind. But he did mind.

Sherlock couldn’t understand. He was not used to that. Sentiment. Sentiment. Sentiment!

xxxxxx

On Monday there was a plastic bag looped through the handle of Sherlock’s locker. His first thought was that it was a prank (maybe some homophobic slurs written on permanent ink, or even some pigs blood, who knew?). but after a moment he noticed that it did not have enough crinkles to be something so careless. He opened it and saw a box. A box. Inside, there was a magnifying glass and chocolate. Resting on top was a note that said:

_ For the best detective I know. _

_ -Love, _

_ H _

_ P.S. I love the way you smirk when you’ve made a particularly clever deduction. I love your perpetual bed hair. I love the way you walk taller than everyone else, head held high. And I love your moon grey eyes that change colour every time I dare to look at them. So, if you think I’m not attracted to you, Sherlock Holmes, you’re crazy. Thank you for never breaking my trust. _

And underneath that, he had written his mobile number.

There was a tingling feeling that radiated outward from a point below Sherlock’s stomach- wrenching and wonderful and almost unbearable. He didn’t believe he had ever been more aware of his own heart beat. H and his almost doctor-like handwriting and the word ‘love’ repeated over and over again.

Not to mention that Sherlock could call him right at that moment and know who he was. 

But he thought he wouldn’t call. Not yet. H had to be the one to show himself to Sherlock.

xxxxxx

**FROM: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**TO:h78@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 25 at 9:27 AM**

**SUBJECT: Us**

H,

I have been writing and deleting and rewriting this email all weekend. And I still can’t get it right. But I will not cower.

I know I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a weird couple of weeks.

So, first I want to clarify: I do know who you are.

This meaning, I still do not know your name, or anything related to your physical appearance.. But you have to understand that I do know you. I know you are kind, I know you have the unconscious need to help and save others, hence the superhero fixation. And I know you don’t judge me and that you remember the details of the stories I tell you about my experiences. You overthink, but end up always saying the right thing. You can read people’s sentiments in a way I cannot, which is a serious advantage.

And I rarely listen to my feelings, but now that I am paying attention to them, they tell me we’ve got to know each other from the inside out.

It occured to me that I have been spending too much time thinking about you and rereading our shared emails. But I’ve spent little time spelling things out for you and taking chances.

Obviously, I haven’t the smallest idea what I’m doing here, but I’m trying to say that I like you. More than that. And I’d love to meet you and deduce your every breath. I cannot imagine a scenario where it can become worse than it is right now. I’m almost certain I’ll kiss you as soon as I see you.

Just want to make this perfectly clear.

To sum my rambling up, there’s going to be a classical musical recital today in which I’m going to present my latest composition. It ends at nine. It’s in the musical center near StBart’s.

For what it’s worth, I’ll be there from the start at six-thirty until the last performance- mine.

-Love, 

SH

xxxxxx

Sherlock hit send and tried not to think about it, but he was restless and punchy all throughout the day. His stomach might as well have been a centrifuge.

Before the event, everything seemed to be failing. His mind was stuck on H, H, H. He didn’t know how he got there. He honestly didn’t remember even getting in his car, much less driving to his destination.

Once he had arrived, he saw a crowd of people getting ready. The event was for charity. He only did it for the display of his art.

He recognised who was there to watch whom. It was a reliable distraction for a couple of minutes.

Sherlock was not wearing a watch, but he checked his phone again and again. 6:17. 6:23. 6:28. Every part of him twisted and flipped and screamed with anticipation. He wanted to be less excited, because he could not assume he knew what H was thinking. But he couldn’t help it. He was unable to control it. He was hopeless.

Everything was noisy and lit and alive. It was so dull.

Sherlock looked over at the crowd and spotted Mrs Hudson texting. It was too dark to make out her expression, but he’d give his right hand in a bet that she was scolding Mycroft for missing the performance. It was fine, though. Sherlock didn’t care for his presence.

He kept searching.

Everytime someone made eye contact, his heart went haywire. But he couldn’t know without further examination.

He spotted Molly and Mike sitting in the back, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Lestrade arrived a while later and seemed to think it was some kind of cinema-like event, for he brought snacks with him. Snacks. Sherlock hadn’t even told them about the event. Nosy morons. But he was grateful. For the tentative at support.

And then it was eight thirty and he was about to go in. And he still hadn’t found H. Or maybe he had showed up and left, or he had never even showed up at all. It was hard to know what to think.

H liked Sherlock. At least, the note confirmed that. But people were ever changeable. It almost killed him. The only person he’d trusted at such a deep emotional level. All his emotional support, really.

Once he convinced himself H wouldn’t show up, Sherlock stepped onto the stage and, just as John Watson entered, he closed his eyes and let his violin flow and the music engulf his mind.

xxxxxx

Sherlock was backstage, storing his violin and bow away. Someone sled in beside him.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, and Sherlock’s head snapped up.

It was cute John Watson, of the soft eyes and rugby arms and calves, the bloody captain.

He was paralysed and didn’t know what to do. It was him. It was H.

“The other guys had to run. And I think your governess left with them. She was yelling at her phone a lot.” He looked uneasy. Looking around a lot and with a blush on his cheeks. “They asked me to give you this.” He extended the bouquet of flowers he’d earlier seen Molly with. Flowers were a waste. Still, he couldn’t help but appreciate them.

He could hear people leaving. And he was sure his friends did not have somewhere to go. Just the thought of them thinking they could trick him brought a smile to his lips.

John was perfectly silent. He exhaled and said, “I just got your email. I was sure I was going to miss you.” there was a quiet laugh.

He couldn’t do anything but stare at John. He laughed nervously and looked at his jittery hands.

“God, that was beautiful,” John said, but Sherlock just studied his profile.

He turned toward Sherlock, and looked away quickly.

“I can’t believe the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know. I thought I was so obvious.” One would guess they were doing small talk. Might as well discuss the horrid weather. “I think I wanted you to know.”

“How so?”

He stared straight ahead. Still blushing slightly. His hands were shaking. Sherlock was aching to touch him. He’d never craved something so badly in his life. Not even cigarettes. To be candid, if he had been looking for it, he would have guessed it.

“H,” John whispered.

It took Sherlock a second to get there. To search the rooms where the information could be stored. Of course. A room in his mind opened its doors for him. John H. Watson. His birthday was on the seventh of August. He just didn’t know what the ‘H’ stood for. And he couldn’t handle not knowing. It did not agree with him. He was an idiot. He was looking for H in Victor at some point, even. Foolish.

“What does it stand for? John Henry Watson?”

“Shut up.” John laughed and shook his head.

"Humphrey? Higgins?” he tried to guess.

“Hamish.”

Sherlock nodded. “When did you realise it was me?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, you do have a big reputation.” ‘Freak’ echoed in the back of Sherlock’s mind, “There’d hardly be more than one genius at our school. But at first I just assumed I was just seeing things as I wanted them to be.” Seeing what he wanted to see. He meant he wanted it to be Sherlock from the beginning. His stomach twitched. His mind was hazy.

He cleared his throat, “I shouldn’t have mentioned the experiments.”

“Wouldn’t have helped,” John said, lifting his head and smiling brightly. Sherlock’s heart stopped and sped up all at the same time. “You are as delightful in your emails as you are in real life.”

And he realised, he was grinning, too.

In the distance, they began clearing the room and turning off lights. There was something beautiful and eerie about a darkened, unmoving backstage with John Watson, rugby captain. Beyond the curtains, the lights turned off in the doorway. Sherlock knew Mrs Hudson expected him home.

But he scooted closer to John, until their arms were almost touching, and he could feel him twitch just slightly. Their pinky fingers were maybe an inch apart, and it was as if an invisible current ran between them. Illogical. Good.

They were quiet for a moment. He couldn’t believe John was there. He was watching Sherlock. He had heard him play what he’d written for H. Now, John.

Sherlock felt him lean closer, and his heart threatened to escape his body through his throat. “I want to hold your hand,” John whispered uncertainly. Displays of affection. This time: welcome.

“So hold it,” Sherlock said. And he did.

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I love the comments you leave and thank you for the kudos. If you want, open Goodreads and search my name (lola_hyuga) and leave a review on this work so more people can read it. :D  
> Thank you!  
> -CGM


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluff... because who doesn't like a good fluffy Johnlock scene?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there!! Really! This one is just some fluffy routine between them.  
> The next chapter will be the one with some realllll smut...  
> -CGM

During English class on Monday, Sherlock’s eyes immediately found John. He was sitting on the desk beside Sebastian’s, wearing his Rugby jacket over a sweater. And he was so bloody adorable. It was almost physically painful to look at him and know he couldn’t just consume him there and then.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He just nodded and made his way to the back of the room. He was breathless by the time he sat down.

He hadn’t slept the previous night. Not even for a second. And although that was usual for Sherlock, he could observe John had suffered just the same.

He had been picturing that moment for ten hours. now there they were. He didn’t know the procedure from there.

John turned to stare at him and asked if he’d finished the chapter and Sherlock shook his head and John blushed and laughed. It was the epitome of nervous gestures.

The teacher read out loud from the book and talked endlessly. Sherlock kept losing his place. EVerything but John was uninteresting. He’d never been so unfocused. But he was focused. On John. Sherlock rested his chin on his hands, fingers touching, and stared blatantly at him. The captain’s body was restless. More than once he moved as if to turn toward Sherlock, but the teacher always gave him a stern look and he stopped. Bloody arse. Sherlock was perfectly attuned to every point of contact between them the previous night. It was like their nerve endings had found a way to slip through fabric.

And then John stretched his legs forward and the rest of the period was devoted to staring at his knee. There was a place where his jeans were fraying, and a tiny patch of skin was barely visible between the fibers of the denim. All Sherlock wanted to do was touch it. Memorize the texture and learn its curves. Lick, bite, breathe it in. At one point, John and most of the others turned to look at him, and only then did he realise he had just sighed out loud.

After class, Irene was on Sherlock’s back questioning him. Mocking him. She knew. That was alright, though. He doubted the others would miss it, either. The tension was palpable.

He was not expecting to see John again until lunch, but he materializes at Sherlock’s locker right before him. “I think we should go somewhere.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. John had clearly never done that before. Sherlock had no opposition. Mycroft would only notice around thirteen minutes after they left. 

John pressed his fingertips against his for a fleeting moment. Soft. Warm. Electricity.

Sherlock agreed. 

They walked out the side door. The air was sharply cold from an hour or two of early morning rain. 

Sherlock forced him to his car. There was no way he was getting in John’s prehistoric one that looked like it was falling apart.

Still, John refused to tell him where they were headed. A compromise, he called it. He just smiled and pointed when he had to turn here and there. Sherlock didn’t point out that he could certainly find a quicker way to wherever he wished them to go. The map on the entire country was printed in his mind.

Droplets sled in tapering diagonals across the windows. He touched John’s elbow when he raised his arm to indicate that he should turn right. “You’re uncharacteristically quiet.”

John smiled. “You’re cute.” The simplicity of that statement sent a thrill through his whole body. John told him to park and he realised they were at the supermarket. Grocery bloody shopping, 

John was still smiling and his doubts melted away.

They covered their heads with their hands as they ran through the rain. They stepped into the brightly lit entryway. Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Quite a lot of missed messages.

_ Where are you? Are you coming to lunch? _ wrote Lestrade.

_ John is missing, too. How strange. ;P _ Irene texted, although he didn’t understand her use of emoticons.

_ We will have a conversation about this when I return. Meanwhile, you’ll have to endure Mrs Hudson’s version of ‘the talk’. MH  _ Mycroft thought he was so funny, telling on him.

Molly, at last, wrote,  _ Don’t worry, the guys will stop bothering you, now. Have fun. You deserve it. _

She was the only one who got a reply saying ‘thank you’.

And then there was John, carrying a grocery basket, his short hair damp and his eyes bright. “Half an hour until the end of lunch. Maybe we should divide and conquer.”

Sherlock explained to him that he simply had never done the whole grocery shopping thing before and he laughed at Sherlock, directing him to the dairy aisle to go get milk.

At the checkout, they reconvened and SHerlock saw that he had gotten nothing but chocolate. He called it their lunch and Sherlock just couldn't argue. He wouldn’t have eaten anything if it weren’t for John, anyway. He almost kissed him right there in front of the checkout worker.

Sherlock insisted on paying for everything. The rain had picked up, but they made a break for it, falling breathlessly into the seats and letting the doors slam shut. He twisted the ignition, and the heat kicked back on, and the only sound was the tap of raindrops against the window. John looked down at his hands, and Sherlock saw he was grinning.

“John,” he said, trying it out, and there was that soft ache below his stomach.

John’s eyes flicked toward him.

And the rain made a curtain, which was probably for the best. Because, all of a sudden, Sherlock was leaning over the gear stick, and his hands were on John’s shoulders, and he was trying to keep breathing. All he could see were John’s lips. Which fell gently open the moment Sherlock leaned in to kiss him.

And he couldn’t even describe it.

It was stillness and pressure and rhythm and breathing. Muscles tensing up and achieving relaxation. They couldn’t figure out their noses at first, but then they did, and then Sherlock realised his eyes were still open. So he shut them. And John’s fingertips grazed the nape of his neck, in constant quiet motion.

John paused for a moment, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, and John smiled, so he smiled back. And then he leaned in to kiss Sherlock again, sweet and feather-soft. And it was too perfect. Almost too good to be part of reality. It couldn’t actually be him.

Everything was sensation. Sharp, warm, soft, humid, strong, good.

Ten minutes later, they were holding hands and eating chocolate and it was the perfect lunch. More chocolate than milk.

“So, now what?” Sherlock asked.

“We should probably get back to school.”

“Not what I was referring to,” he explained. John was tapping along the creases in his palm with his thumb, and it made him lose focus. The thumb stopped, he looked at him, and twined his fingers through Sherlock’s. He leaned back, tilting his head toward John.

“I’m all in,” John clarified. “If you are.”

Sherlock nodded. Of course. His boyfriend. His blue eyed, rugby captain, writer boyfriend.

And he couldn’t stop smiling. How could there be times where it took more effort not to smile?

xxxxxx

He decided to keep the details to himself that night, for the bombardment of questions would come the next day as soon as he stepped foot in school.

Instead, he called John. He couldn’t believe he did not have his number until yesterday. John picked up right away. They were quiet for a minute and his sigh was followed by a nervous laugh. Like the world belonged to them. He sank backward onto the mattress.

“I miss you,” John whispered. 

And they stayed like that until Sherlock heard his soft snore-like breathing, which made him smile as he turned the phone off and closed my eyes.

xxxxxx

“All right.” Lestrade and the others accosted him at his locker. “I’m about to lose my shit. What in the bloody hell is going on with you and Watson?”

Sherlock shrugged.

Molly was smiling more than usual, it didn’t suit her, she looked somewhat like a rat. She told him they were extremely cute together and he did not point out that she hadn’t seen the two of them together. And the lack of that comment could be described as improvement.

John happened to be in his algebra class, in a few minutes. It basically amounted to two hours of staring longingly at his mouth and five hours of imagining it. Against his. 

Instead of lunch, they sneaked into the chemistry lab.

They were alone in the room, but it felt too big, so he took John by the hand and pulled him into the supplies room.

“Aha,” he said, as Sherlock fiddled with the lock. “This is a doors-locked kind of activity.”

He agreed, turned and kissed him, pushing his back against the door.

John’s hands fell to his waist, and he pulled him in closer. He was a lot shorter than Sherlock, and he smelled like soap, and for someone whose boy-kissing career began yesterday, John had seriously magical lips. Soft and sweet and lingering. He kissed like he wrote.

And then they sat down on the floor, and he twisted his jacket around sideways so he could rest his legs across John’s lap. And he drummed his fingers across Sherlock’s shins, and they talked about experiments and the upcoming rugby game.

“Oh, and guess who was apparently bisexual,” John said.

“Who?”

“Bloody Casanova, according to my dad. After I told him I like men, he came home sooner and told me he loved me in the awkwardest way possible.”

Sherlock kissed his fist, then his wrist and memorised the texture and pulse rhythm. And John chuckled. Sherlock realised he loved John Watson’s smile and laugh. He loved watching him relax around him. He loved it. Everything. When John leaned forward to scratch his ankle, and his heart just twisted as the shirt sled slightly up and the skin under it was showing.

Everything.

He floated through the rest of the day, and John was all he could think about. And he texted Sherlock as soon as he got home.  _ Miss you sooooooo much!!! :))) Happy two day anniversary. _

He smiled until Mycroft approached. “You seem to be in a… good mood.”

Sherlock rubbed Redbeard’s belly and shrugged.

“Need I remind you-”

“You needn't remind me of anything I deemed important. So, please, do us both a favor and leave John alone. Are we clear?”

A nod in response. 

Once he was back in his room, after infinite questions from Mr Hudson where she forced him to show her ‘the boyfriend’ and a promise to ‘bring him by to see if he’s worth it’, the routine of falling asleep listening to John’s breathing continued.

All was well.

xxxxx

**FROM: phil.andy69@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Jan 30 at 5:24 PM**

**SUBJECT: sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it**

Hey Holmes,

I’m assuming u hate me, which would make absolute sense under the circumstances. I don’t even know where to begin with all this, so I’ll just start by saying I’m sorry. Even if I know that, by your standards, sorry is a completely inadequate word, and maybe I should be doing this in person, but u probably don’t even want to look at me, so I guess it is what it is.

Anyway, I can’t stop thinking about what my brother told me about what I took from u. And I really feel like I took something enormous. I didn’t let myself see it before, but now that I see it, i cannot believe I did that. All of it. The fucking balckmail. And the post. I don’t know if you realise I took it down before more people saw it. I know that doesn’t really make it better. but I really want u to know that. I feel sick with guilt about the entire thing. I'm not even gonna ask u to forgive me. I’m so sorry.

I don’t even know how to explain it. Everything i did was just so goddamn stupid.

I’m probs just making excuses, cause maybe I turned this shit all around me having a crush on a girl.

U probably stopped reading this ages ago, but I am rlly sorry, ok?

If i could go back, none of this would’ve happened.

-Sorry,

Philip Anderson

xxxxxx

Mrs hudson left the previous day to go visit her sister, which meant she would only be back on the weekend. John told him his parents would only be home in three hours. And his sister, Harriet (Harry), was at a sleep-over. John’s eyes were lit with mischief. It was very John-like. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he just smiled and bit his lip. He told Sherlock to bring Redbeard to his house so he wouldn’t be alone and that they would meet there.

Once he arrived, he saw John turning the sound of his phone on, so he knew when his parents were on their way home.

They walked inside his house, leaving a space between their bodies. The air around them seemed to crackle with electricity.

Sherlock’s heart pounded and his ears were red.

Stepping into the entryway of John’s house seemed so personal. The painted wood dresser against the wall, overflowing with catalogs and junk mail. There was a muffled thud as Redbeard tried to jump on John to receive some pets.

“Well, hi,” John said, practically crouching down. “I know I haven’t paid attention to you, yet. But you’re a cutie.” He was using a ridiculous voice. It was sweet.

The dog yapped passionately, all tongue, John laughed, as he got licked.

“You have that effect on us,” Sherlock explained.

John kissed Redbeard on the nose and followed into the living room.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Or thirsty?”

“I’m fine.” More than that, actually, for he was there with him.

“We probably have coke.” Sherlock very badly wanted to kiss him as his nervous ramble continued. He didn’t know why he was stalling. “Do you want to watch something?”

He looked at John. “I don’t.”

John laughed. “So let's not.” And he showed him the way to his room. Framed photographs lined the wall by the staircase, and Sherlock paused to look at each one. There were some of John dressed as a superhero over the years. All equally charming.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it “You’re really here,” he sighed. He opened the door, and kicked some of the clothes aside as he walked in. He apologized and Sherlock smiled. There was a dirty-clothes pile next to the empty hamper, and a clean-clothes pile next to the empty dresser. Books and papers everywhere. An empty bag of goldfish crackers on the desk, next to the extensive collection of medical encyclopaedias, a laptop, and a plastic action figure. Backpack on the desk chair. Framed vinyl album covers hanging askew on the walls.

But the bed was made. So that was where John led them and where they sat, leaning against the wall. Their legs stretched forward.

“When you email me,” Sherlock asked. “Where are you?”

“Usually here. Sometimes at the desk.” he nodded, imagining John doing exactly that.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed his boyfriend softly on the neck, just below his jaw. John turned to him and his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

He smiled. Sherlock melted.

And he finally kissed him for real. John kissed him back. His hands fisted Sherlock’s hair. They kissed like it was breathing. It was second nature. His stomach fluttered wildly. And somehow they ended up horizontal, John’s hands curved around his back.

“This is not boring, is it?” Sherlock chuckled at his question. It was the opposite of boring. He didn’t want to do anything else ever again. No school. No meals. Except chocolate, if he could lick it off John. (Unexpected thought). No homework. Maybe some experiments. But his reward for success had to be a kiss from John.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

“No movies. I hate movies. Too predictable.”

John smiled. And then laughed. His hand was massaging Sherlock’s scalp and he clearly loved the curls and Sherlock loved the touch. The caress.

And movies were ridiculous. Why would he want to watch other people kissing, when he could lean forward and kiss John.

Sherlock couldn’t argue with his own logic. He pulled John closer and kissed him urgently. And suddenly he was hard, and he knew John was, too. It was thrilling and strange and completely terrifying. And then he was reminded of John’s mother’s ‘Every Time Including Oral’ rule. And only then did it occur to him that the rule might apply to him. At some point. Eventually. Sherlock kissed him briefly on the cheek.

“I really want to take you out,” John said. Such an ordinary thing to do. “If you didn’t hate all the movies, what would you want to see?”

Sherlock just let him choose. He was not going to pay attention to whatever it was, anyway. He would be studying John. Reaching for him. Touching him.

He let his body relax on top of John’s, his head tucked in the crook of his neck. That way he could smell him. John squeezed him tighter and kissed his hair, and they lay there.

Until a phone buzzed and Sherlock knew the moment was broken. He rested the phone over Sherlock’s head as he enjoyed the last moments of happiness and pure bliss.

Then he pecked Sherlock’s lips, cheeks and eyelids and they both stood up, and stretched. And they each spent some time in the washing room. And by the time John’s family arrived they were on the couch in the living room with a pile of textbooks Sherlock had never even used before, between them.

They tried to converse with him and his uncomfortable cough informed John that he was lost and he interjected and solved everything and then Sherlock took Redbeard home and they fell asleep on the phone. 

Mycroft knew and Sherlock ignored him. But maybe it was a big deal. Maybe he wanted it to be.

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Can't believe it's almost over! Thank you so much for all the support (specially the kind comments)!!!!  
> -CGM


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut. Pure Johnlock smut!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not important to the story so, if it makes you uncomfortable, don't read.  
> It is smaller than the rest because it doesn't even have a plot.

Humiliating. There was no other word for it. Simply humiliating. Demeaning was also a good word, as was the word embarrassing.

How John had gotten the outfit, Sherlock didn’t even want to know. It couldn’t be that difficult to deduce: it was a cheerleader outfit (with a skirt and tank-top), so it belonged to a female. The colours and name were their school’s; so it gave him around eight viable options. If he judged the height of the owner and the usage the clothes had, Sherlock would know who it belonged to the second he looked at the cheerleader squad. He just hoped it wasn’t Mary’s.

Still, at that moment, it was irrelevant.

They were at Sherlock’s house and Mrs Hudson had left, for her sister had fallen ill again. She’d been delighted to meet John on her way out, giving them a knowing look. Her knowing look, directed at Sherlock as she hugged his boyfriend, had been unnecessary and left him feeling more than uncomfortable.

A knock at the door made his mind snap back to the present. “Sherlock, you alright in there?” came John’s voice from the other side of the door. He’d been in the bathroom for fourteen minutes and twenty-one seconds. John must be worried. It had been his idea that Sherlock dress like that; after a particularly bad argument between the two of them.

He looked at himself in the mirror: the upper half of the outfit was too short, showing part of his lower abdomen whenever he moved (too pale against the dark red); the skirt was too short as well on the front and barely covered his buttocks on the back, allowing a glimpse of his under pants. Clearly those cheerleaders were all under the average height of a British male. Not surprising.

Yes, utterly humiliating. (Arousal appart).

He opened the door (slowly) and heard John step back. Then came a gasp.

Sherlock closed the door of the washing room behind him and leaned against it. The silence stretched. John had walked backwards and sat on Sherlock’s bed, looking at him with a smirk Sherlock found extremely uncalled for. He looked hungry with want and arousal. Sherlock hated blushing like he was. He prefered John’s smile that came right before the words ‘brilliant’ left his soft lips.

“By the look on your face, I think the punishment was appropriate.”

“I am not a  _ child _ , John,” he said, trying to sound as venomous as possible. Being punished in a sexual manner would only achieve a certain length of a change in behaviour. If he really wanted him to change, spanking him would work much better. The thought sent a pool of warmth through his belly that nested between his legs. “And I am only doing this because you tricked me with your stupid sentiment.” It was true. After Sherlock had been, according to everyone who saw the incident, unbelievingly insensitive; they had yelled at each other (more than usual) and Sherlock had had a cigarette and John found out and it had been an ‘emotional rollercoaster’.

The day after that, Sherlock had been sure John would forgive him. However, John, instead, decided to only forgive him if he did something for John. It seemed reasonable at the time, until Sherlock found out what the ‘something’ was. Damn John and his ‘hurt’ face. The bastard was probably just  concupiscent. Common word: horny. They had taken a break from sexual actions while John had important tests. Once those ended, neither of them had known how to approach the subject to commence again.

John opened his arms, urging Sherlock to join him on the bed. (John loved hugging, cuddling, and any form of physical contact between the two; Sherlock had discovered, especially while sleeping). He walked closer, but refused to give in. If he had to go through such humiliation, he sure wasn’t going to make it easy on John.

John took his hand, raised to his feet and stretched his neck so his mouth was level with Sherlock’s ear.

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to wear that for much longer.” Then there was nibbling at his ear lobe and (as always) his knees weakened until he was leaning forward and supporting all his weight on the smaller figure embracing him. “Now..” John whispered with a laugh.

He knew what was coming: after a fight, it was rough and teasing; after a ‘good moment’ (like the time he apologized to Molly for deducing her out loud on her crush on some boy) it was gentle and slow. He enjoyed both. This particular one belonged in the first category.

He was proven right when John twirled them around and threw him onto the bed (soft, smelled faintly of John).

He tried to push himself back up, but received a shake of a head. He also knew what was coming, and didn’t have it in him to object in the slightest.

John kneeled between his parted knees and smiled. Sherlock’s penis started to get erect. More than it already was, anyway. And he felt the flush rise to his cheeks.

John tilted his head forward, never taking his eyes off Sherlock’s, and kissed the hem of the skirt.

The sound that left Sherlock’s mouth was something he’d deny existed until his dying breath. His cock hardened quickly after that. And the sounds grew bolder.

John’s hands traced his ribs lightly under his tank top, sending sparks through Sherlock’s every nerve.

“You are so thin,” he whispered, and Sherlock knew that had been one of John’s main concerns the first time he learned of his eating habits. And an even bigger one when they had seen each other naked for the first time.

John had taken it upon himself to always trace the pattern of his ribs and make him eat extra meals on the days he thought they were too prominent. In return, Sherlock would receive moments of peace from his brain after a mind-blowing orgasm. It wasn’t all bad.

Sherlock loved that ritual.

John tugged at the bottom of the skirt hesitatingly. Sherlock knew he was shy, even with his boyfriend squirming under him, asking for more, when it came to doing something without explicit consent beforehand. Sherlock nodded and threw his head back, covering his eyes with his arm. If he saw what was about to happen, he wouldn’t last any longer than he had their first time.

How many times had he called the situation humiliating? Certainly not enough.

John lifted the skirt, stripped the pants off Sherlock’s legs and buried his head under the small skirt, disappearing behind the red and white cloth. He kissed the insides of his legs and rose, planting a quick kiss of the base of his cock before licking his way to the tip.

By this point, Sherlock was fully erect and, judging by John’s happy chuckling, leaking pre cum as well.

They had agreed to always put on the condoms beforehand, as a way to never go through any risk, and prevent awkward fumbling during the heated moments.

Although Mycroft had been very severe in his want of John’s medical records, even bothering John's mother with it until he got them. Needless to say the two of them were as clean as could be.

“I could do this forever,” John whispered, and then stopped talking, his mouth growing occupied elsewhere.

All the sensations were overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time (paradoxes happened often at these moments): the bed under him, dipping when he shifted his weight and raised his hips to meet John’s mouth; the thought of never wanting to go to school again, of never wanting to move again (they would evolve so food and water would be obsolete), never running any experiment except that one ever again. His world was  _ John John John.  _ His John. Touching him. Destroying him. Absorbing him. Dissolving him.

And when he started humming around Sherlock’s cock and pulling away to whisper sweet nothings against his hips and thighs, everything melted in his brain.

“You’re brilliant,” he’d say. Or, “the sounds you make are fantastic.”

And all Sherlock could do was grasp the sheets by his head and the hairs on John’s head, or even his own curls, so the pleasure would last longer and never end. And never break their blissful paradise.

When the sensations stopped, he couldn’t help but groan in displeasure, searching with his hands for John.

“This is your punishment, remember? I won’t let you climax until I say you can. Understood?” The always so bossy John said. Sherlock stored the idea of him dressed as a military general giving him orders away in his brain. Maybe he could guilt John into doing it someday.

John rose so he was resting on his elbows over Sherlock’s chest. He slid a hand under the top and traced his ribs again, dipping his head so he could lick Sherlock’s stomach. He licked his way up, pulling at the top, and reached Sherlock’s chest. He licked one of his nipples and Sherlock had to bite his hand to stop from screaming. John got tired of the upper part of his outfit and pushed it off in a brusque motion. The movement made Sherlock’s arms extend above his head and they locked fingers as John went back to his licking. This, of course, led to Sherlock’s moans coming loose.

John kissed past the collarbone and to the side of the neck, biting and replacing the marks that had since faded.

He wanted to plead and beg. But Sherlock Holmes didn’t beg for anyone or anything. And he wouldn’t give John that satisfaction.

“Did you shower?” John asked, and it took longer than it should have for the next action to click in Sherlock’s brain.

If he spoke, it would be incoherent, so he settled for nodding. John smiled. He loved teasing and knowing he had more power than Sherlock.

He got off the bed and kneeled again. His hands carefully placed Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders so he was eye level with his target. The hot breath near the entrance made Sherlock’s eyes roll to the back of his skull. He was saying  _ John john john john _ and he wasn’t sure if it was in his head or out loud, but the world needed to know that he adored every touch of their bodies and-

And his tongue.

“John,” that one was definitely said out loud.

He wanted- needed- couldn’t… He knew the torture would only ceise when he apologized properly and promised to never repeat it again. Even if they both knew it was beyond his ability to stop himself from deducing. He apologized anyway, wanting to jump over that marvelous edge that made his mind quiet like nothing else aside from john could.

John gave one last lick and pulled away and positioned himself on top of SHerlock’s body. He asked for permission, as always, just for the morality of it, and pulled his jeans open and down, along with his pants.

Then, they started moving in unison with one of John’s hands holding both of Sherlock’s over his head and his free one holding both their cocks as they gasped with pleasure.

John released his hands in favour of putting pressure on the skin of his nipples and Sherlock had to hold onto something. Anything. And the closest thing was John.  _ John _ . So held onto his back with his nails and bit onto his shoulder with his teeth and licked away the wound he left behind. His face felt cold with sweat and tears and their movements and noises were complete harmony in the form of flesh.

“Let go, Sherlock, it’s okay.”

And, with that, he let go and cried out onto John’s neck and his fingernails smelt of iron and John was everything that mattered. All his senses. And he felt John’s orgasm erupting above him as he walked over the edge along with Sherlock and whispered his adorations for him in a raspy voice that would’ve made him cum again, were it possible.

xxxxxx

**FROM: h78@gmail.com**

**TO: w.fairhair.h@gmail.com**

**DATE: Mar 10 at 3:07 AM**

**SUBJECT: You**

Sherlock (W),

I woke up very thirsty and got up to go drink some water. This was, until I remembered where I was and saw you naked, sleeping beside me. Your body is simply majestic. I can’t believe I am so lucky as to have you. To be able to cherish you.

From the movements of your chest when you breathe, to the marks I left on your beautiful, elegant neck. You are perfect. (And the marks your perfectly clean fingernails left on my back weren’t bad, either. I checked them in the mirror when I ran to the bathroom and I can’t believe I didn’t feel you doing that. Not that I mind ;)))

And I am writing this, because I can’t fathom the thought of not letting you know how perfect you are. I would tell you personally, but you looked so peaceful as you slept. I don’t think you have ever slept so much.

Everytime I glance at you, I just have the urge to rip the sheets off your pale body, climb between your legs and hear every tiny sound you make with that sinful mouth of yours. I want to make you cum over and over until the only word you know is my name. I want to taste you until you feel my mouth forever imprinted on your skin. I want to memorize your scent: the nape of your neck; the hollow of your throat; the dip of your stomach; your…

I want to hold you and never let go.

I want to kiss you, lick you, bite you, mark you. EVERYWHERE.

I want to tell you how much I care for you, even if your brother shows up at my doorstep to threaten me, again.

You are the smartest, most wonderful and fantastic human being and I am lucky enough to be lying next to you, right now. You are my cheerleader, my lover, my genius!

Love,

-John H Watson

P.S. I might not be ready to say this out loud just yet, but I Love You...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being with me through the amazing adventure that was writing this fic. Thank you!  
> -CGM


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